Could it really be her? Poem about a fighting Trout

By Brian McDonald













Rousing from the peat brown depths; the
sunlight caught her silvery flanks
as she turned and sucked a passing fly.
And like a liquid mirror melting in smooth waves
the stillness of the sheet-glass water moved
as ripplets lapped gently in ever expanding circles
that came to meet me by the waters edge, then,
in a moment of time, all was still once more.

In her dark, watery peat, abode she positions her self
once again to wait the providence of the river and sure enough
another fly is found wanting and meets its demise in the endless cycle
of life and death.

From the cover of the thicket bank I watch her comings and goings.
Waiting, pondering, wondering if she had spied me there.
I cast a false one then another to lay my fly upon the water and wait
with watchful eye to see if feather quill and sharpened steel would entice her from the darkness beneath.

A gentle twitch and feather quill and sharpened steel
come to life one jerk at a time before launching swiftly to flight
as I raise my hand and cast upstream hoping this time
that providence will favour me instead of her.

Twitching fly of steel and quill floats by, then bang, it’s gone.
The liquid mirror smashes into a million pieces and all hell breaks lose upon the surface.
My heart begins its merry dance and pounds within me, my mind races with excitement, did I hook her fair and good, would I lose her, again….…
For this was not our first meeting, oh no, for we had come to blows in times passed and she had won the battles but the war goes on. Brightly she slaps the water sending slithers of liquid mirror flying into the sky, fiercely banging and tugging with all her might.

Not this time my lady, not this time.

Looking back I think of her, the times we fought and smashed the liquid mirror to smithereens and I wonder…. does she still put up the good fight.

Yes, I lost her again that night and from the riverbank battleground I swore an oath or curse im not sure which, that she would one day be mine, but that was then and this was now and time has pasted like the liquid mirror, under the bridge, only memories now.

I still hear tails from those around of a fighting trout down by the river pool that no man has ever landed and a smile passes my lips as I wonder
could it really be her after all this time?

Derg

The Ardstraw bridge River Derg







The Derg is a large (10-20m) spate river with a fine head of wild brown trout, but it is best known for salmon and sea trout which are generally at their best from late May to August.