Angling on a calm day

No wind and not a ripple
on the face of reflection,
lull a fool into a false sense
of gentle melancholy.

The rocks are dry.
No moss or frost rime their grey
no waders dark and shining
on this clear autumnal morning.

I cast to dead centre
aim to hit a sweet spot.
Trout and pike live side by side.
Here, the Merid dies on October’s high tides.

Maura, my easy day, still water.
Until some mis-understood cyclone struck
and she rose like a kraken
all emerald fury, teeth gnashing

Claws drawn to scar my face.
And so I am here on the bank
of a clear delta whispering my troubles
to the sea.

I’m just a man not complex,
not like that other sex that I am damned
to subsist with. A commonality
of language might have been an advantage.

The wave came raging red,
hitting broadside, rod on the shore
and I arse over tit, wrapped in sheaves
of wore and weed, in the cold sea.

My boots dragged me down, like words,
impotent in this maelstrom, I slowly drown.
Struggle is a whirring reel,
I spin with the surge and feel a shift,

Roll with the energy and break to air.
sense returns. The shore a short swim away,
So little to restore calm, just acceptance
that you are weaker than the ocean

And far weaker than an angry woman.

-Dave Kavanagh

 

Y’all know my wife’s name is not Maura right? 

Image courtesy of Google images 

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