The musician of the lake

Dad stumbled through tunes on the box,

sounded windy on the long ebony flute,

blew foul notes through the saxophone,

stuttered on a Clarke’s penny whistle, 

but when he took a split cane fly rod,

a fibre glass, a carbon mix, a graphite

or a composite, he made it sing perfect

notes, tunes of casting. A silk line flew

through the eyes, curled in the wind,

unfurled eight metres out, landed quietly, 

sank intact into waves, coloured feathers

tempted the scales below. Drew the line

back smoothly or in varied movements,

through gnarled fingers, judging length,

played the nylon in further enticement,

lifted the rod slowly to ten o’clock, then

snapped into a graceful curve behind him,

conducted his own perfect symphony.