The river wye at Rocklands where the Hawkshead cliffs are, is where i fish and have a beat.
The Dance at Hawkshead by M.A.Meddings
The dance at Hawkshead.By M.A.Meddings
On the borderline, where the Ravens roar, cathedral cliffs rise at Hawkshead,
And my lovely; silken; Whitsun lady, comes dancing across the scarp,
She teases me all full of guile, dressed in silver sheen, then sets my poor heart pulsing,
For I, just like the fool I am, forget my place and dare enticement baited,
Because the lady of my dreams is here and has me in a tangle,
Yet, with subtle grace we set the pace, and dance to the song of the reel.
We will dance along my lady love, dance to the song of the reel,
Whilst the Ravens roar along borderline on the soaring cliffs at Hawkshead,
Then swing and cast in double Spey, punch the loop, don't Tangle,
When the silvern dreams of Whitsuntide go on across the scarp,
Let's wade in deep, chest high and hard, with fur and feather baited,
For she has shown thrice times or more, and set my heart a pulsing.
There is six foot on at Erwood now, at Redbrook ? High and Pulsing,
No time this now for bold bravure, no time for the song of the reel,
The word is now, don't take the chance, forget enticement Baited,
For death awaits the misplaced step, there's trouble abroad at Hawkshead,
And the Wye Spring fish, just from the sea go on a cross the Scarp,
With a clear long run to Bredwardine and many a chance to Tangle.
With many a chance to show your worth, how well that you might tangle,
Portmanteaux fish that find their way to water barely pulsing,
And May time fish follow spring time fish going on across the scarp,
With a rush and a dash under English bridge and ignore the song of the reel.
For they're many a league beyond Rocklands now, many an hour from Hawkshead,
To the spawning gravels on high peat moor, far away from the feathers baited.
Into legal ground at the seasons end no threat from the feathers baited,
No reason now but to spawn the brood, no threat of the chance to tangle,
Beyond the sound of the Raven's roar, far beyond the cliffs at Hawkshead,
Scooping the reds with the cock fish near with his muscles readily pulsing,
A fugitive fish with a scar on his side, an escape from the threat of the reel,
To give life to the brood, who return to the sea and scurry across the scarp.
On the winter chill the ice forms thick at the margins along the scarp,
No anglers now to fill the void but the warmth of the fires and baited,
With howl of the storm and the cut of the wind drown out the song of the reel,
For there's two months yet beyond the year before we have chance to tangle,
And the February floods come dark and swift on a river already pulsing,
Whilst the Ravens roar on the borderline by cathedral cliffs at Hawkshead.
But then in March, along the scarp come spring fresh fish to tangle, .
And with feathers newly baited, we'll try the worth of winter's work on nerves steadily pulsing,
And the song of the reel will be heard again under cathedral cliffs at Hawkshead.
The end
Poetry by lastromantichero
Read 872 times
Written on 2005-12-07 at 07:05
Tags Angling
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