(A poem in progress)
Peter stands at the wall.
He is watching the fish, brown trout,
dipping in and out of the deep pool
by the bridge. Their constant movement
and the splash of the water
pleases him. Willow leaves, burnt and brown,
float on the stream. Only a few
still adhere to the branches.
It’s November, a dull grey day
though not too cold. Peter comes here most days,
buys a pie from the shop just over the bridge,
stands at the wall, watching.
Sometimes there are no fish,
but in his mind he still sees them,
loves the constant interplay
of their twisting bodies, how they curve
through the water. He, bent and twisted,
envies their freedom, as he leans as usual
on the shorter of the two sticks he uses.
Thirty years those sticks have brought him to this wall,
rain and shine, rain and shine. Now, though,
a murmuring voice somewhere deep inside
is telling him there will not be many more
days like this. Soon the brown trout will ply
their cold splashy water unwatched,
unloved, and uncaring, in a world that is
just the same, only not remarked upon.