Adam Taylor

Night-fishers

They might almost be bushes, boulders,
they sit so still.
Night floods the meadow at their shoulders,
brims the canal, and renders rod and line
invisible.



Traffic on the by-pass sighs
as if asleep.
A mallard claps derisively and flies.
Cows rip the grass. Its being chosen makes
the silence deep.



The rooms that penned them flicker in
synaptic light;
eyes gaze at screens; ears buzz with din;
the mirror that enchants these fishermen
is lost to sight.



Already a subscriber? Log in

Keep reading with a free trial

Subscribe and get your first month of online and app access for free. After that it’s just £1 a week.

There’s no commitment, you can cancel any time.

Or

Unlock more articles

REGISTER

Comments

Don't miss out

Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.

Already a subscriber? Log in