“I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing”*

“I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing”*
(*from the COMPLEAT ANGLER by Izaak Walton, 1653)

When the world is asleep,
still blurred by night’s dreams,

fishermen come quietly to this stream
seeking solitude.
Plying ancient
skill, enjoying moments of possession
when glistening beauty is theirs alone.

Mists cloak mysteries of life from
these still somnambulant voyeurs at this quiet refuge.

Standing in the flowing spring water,
a solitary fisher waves a fishing pole like
some gigantic Prospero’s wand,

summoning spirits — willing
‘MorningDunn’ Mayflies to hatch;
which magically conjures fish.

Suddenly - this fisherman
throws his rod away,
and begins beating on
a wicker tackle box like a ceremonial drum.
An inexplicable manic outburst – or is it?

A booming call to others,
who would be enraptured by sonic ripples.
Is he mentally unstable - or merely overcome
by the drowsy truth of nature?
As if he was some errant meteor –
streaming through peaceful air, off-kilter off-course
leaving only his wake of dissonance in rippling
shock-waves.

Then he bounces and leaps like a choice frog,
plump with laughter.
First on one foot then another.
Causing the sleek dark
forms of pooling trout to scuttle away into
swifter sparge-sloshing water.

Broken glimmers
of still morning’s in tangerine-coloured dawn
are betrayed by his quixotic hardihood.

His noisome antics disrupt the introspective reflection
of other anglers, who have laid aside
cares of the world’s business,
to pick up artificial lures and bright feathers;
so they might snare and reel truth from fresh depths –
bringing realization of their spiritual quests.
Averting eyes from
this cosmic river brimming with precious fish.
Some would tackle him now and put
an end to madness.
But all these fishers wish to feel
sudden pleasures of the line.
The process
of learning to fish - drifts along with
hope, delicate; because success coupled
with disappointment is a test of character,
taken over and over.

His outrageous behavior,
ructiously annoying at first, fails to
penetrate consciousness or bugslippery
protection of cutters oil
and zippered vests -
full of pocketed secrets that are required
trappings for this society.
Eventually, infectious energy snags others
with smiles and chuckles
amid interrupted visions of limitless
rainbow blessings.
Irresistible, much as
bobbing silky bait which catches men
in fathomless revelation.
There is no
escaping the obvious: men usually fake dancing!
Except maybe Mikhail Baryshnikov or the
'late' James Brown or confident John Travolta
who are frequent
practitioners of an impulse to let one’s
self-go,
which becomes an art in the joy
of waking bodies.
When men can encounter
instant reality at wonder of the self.
Just as these men do now, before their season is
over.
Throwing off confinements of slick-
rubber waders
to spin wildly naked in
chilled streams.
Overcome by unseen
mischiefish urgings.
Finding their best
catch, among moments of bizarre release.
Splashings of unlikeliness which
produce joyful connections only witnessed
by fellow fishermen.

Immersed with the spirit,
casting fly hooks

of landless inhibition, out into immeasurable
currents and beyond.