John Grey

 

Quiet, he tells her,

You’ll disturb the fish,

but she’s sure, the silence

disturbs her more

than any school of silver trout

cruising innocently

along the river bed,

ignorant of men.
 

He was up early

with tweezers, magnifying glass,

making lures.

Even then, it was

“don’t bother mean”

and hands, more excited

to be making these

than touching her.

 

Now, he thinks, with her book

and her back against a tree,

she should be enjoying this.

Or, at least, the sight of her

thumbing softly through the pages,

is the closest he comes

to putting her out of mind.

 

Nothing’s biting

but that doesn’t seem to matter.

She remembers what was hooked

at five a.m.,

her lover on that tiny fly,

his wide eyes like bass

snapping at the hook,

reeled in by deliberate hands.