#FOWC #Bait #Angler #Lament
The fisher sits on his seat of green,
surveying nets he’s sat in between.
He’s been sat there, since start of the day,
and only caught one – which he let swim away
He hoped by letting go of little fish,
he’d catch some bigger ones to put in his dish.
And as he waited – it came dimmer in th’light
as wispy grey clouds gathered in tight
He cast out two lines, wi hooks brimming wi bait,
casting them out with his arm out straight.
As he looked up to heaven, and awaited fate
all he could do was to sit down, and wait
This Ancient ritual, of releasing the fish,
hadn’t so far caught summat for th’dish
Another cup of tea he pours
Listening to stories on Radio 4,
But, Alas what is this, he hears to the east
above the sound of the Canada Geese?
It’s the sound of laughter, that’s a raisin’
of the big fish, safe, in another basin.
The Inkwell 
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