The River

One of the joys of returning to Angling has been my exploration of my local river. The ancient chalk stream is different from the commercial pools I fished in my youth in every conceivable way, each time I arrive at the bank I feel a rush of excitement. A well planned approach and a compliant river could bring Roach or Chub into the net on a regular basis, or the river could ignore my pleas until at the last moment a mystery fish pulls my float under as the light fades into the night.

I have not composed any poetry (except to my fiancee) since I was at college but the lines below are an expression of the new relationship between me and flowing water:

There is a place I know
down where the Alder grow
and the cold waters flow
where a man can be free
and be swept away in his dream

Where the float dances along
to the waters song
where the Kingfisher swoop
and the mighty Heron stoop
where modern life begins to fade
and is washed away in the stream

There is a place I know
down where the willow grow
and time becomes slow
where a man can be free
and his problems are washed away

Down by the river
Dancing with the lady of the stream

Down by the river
Hunting the wily river prince

Down by the river
I am all I can be

Down by the river
I am free