The fisherman. A poem by Michael O Meara

With stealth comes on rivers edge,
patient eye examines every line.
The waters dappled ripple showing.
Casts his fly,
with practised hand upon the wave,

His quarry neath that watery surface,
alert to every morsel passing by.
Strikes quickly, the prize is his, but wait?
What is this pain he feels and fights against?
Drawn against his will unto the shore,

Lifted and gazed upon with eyes,
prize the beauty lying there.
Placed back into waters loving hand,
swims away much wiser than before.

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