An Angler's Morn

I've done, I do, pray right or wrong
though old these bones, I get along.
By water's edge where lilies groom
my yawning morn in aging bloom.

Embracing wakes yon cob and pen
in quietude through rippled Zen.
Such love declared; the faiths insist
to clear one's eyes of morning's mist.

Of beauties deep as sky is high
o'er lake where swift and damselfly.
On wing and light in wild displays
as if to woo a lover's praise.

A breeze to waltz the noble reeds
and catch their gentle falling seeds.
Tomorrow's life, a day anew
when yester-dreams come breathing through.

A sat a bank with rod and line
to cast into the deep sublime.
I skilled in ways, the ways of fate,
a patient skill for I must wait.

Unwearied yet in want succumb
to every ripple, beat and hum.
A floating leaf, a web in ruins,
a clapping dove, a warbler croons.

'Tis sudden when the reel’s in spin,
'twixt trout and man and all within.
Our beating hearts to time and tide,
who flows, who ebbs, whose hopes denied?

Of hawks when talons deep in flesh;
the cuckoo in another's creche.
The grazing herds, the stalking dogs,
the farmers scythe and fattened hogs.

The butcher’s apron stained with blood,
whilst preachers preach the wrath of God.
The teacher keeping track of time,
old bards about their daily rhyme.

Young soldiers marching four by four,

the taxman’s calling door to door.

The madding crowds are at the gates,

the talk of war between the states.

The city streets in seething din,

drop a coin in the beggar’s tin.

The private yachts are out at sea,

a call girl’s met her destiny.

And here I am, what I’m about,
pray hope I land my breakfast trout.
Sometimes I think I’m nearly done,
yet still I live as day is young.

This morning is for all I am,
the atheist, the holy man.
Come one and all, my friends, this day;
let’s keep it true, pray, what you say?