A poem tae the angler fae the angler

Be it a reservoir, river or lake, there will surely be a trout enticed to take

Nothing but the humble trout, will always be swimming round and about

Casting flies just off his nose, will the wise trout swirl and expose.

Nothing is certain, as all anglers agree- the native fish ready to flee.

Patterns peculiar, not divine, not reassuring for a wise trout to dine.

Rolling countryside, trees so high, a large dark olive- sipped good bye.

All is but plenty for an angler’s clique

A swift gin stream, so soft and clean

A stout silver grayling nymphing, such sheen

Nothing is certain; why such sport seen, the large wise trout, swims free. He’s clean.

By Joshua Maitland ~ Copy right 2017~