I wade into the water to the hip.
And stall and strain against the river’s push.
And on the bed those round deceptive rocks,
At first refuse and then allow me grip.
Then when a steady stance I can attain,
And feathered lure is ready for the cast,
A feeling that I’v often had before,
Tells me my efforts may all be in vain.
But banishing this boyish malady,
Determined that the battle should begin,
I survey right and left and right again,
To find just where the gamest foe might be.
From shoulder through the elbow to the wrist,
The power drives the cane to do it’s work.
The “Wicklow Killer” soars before it drops.
Delivered with that final, gentle twist.
A lazy brown observes this with distain.
And did he turn and smile as though to say,
“I know this trick, I know this little game,
It fooled me once, I’ll not be fooled again”.