Bob Dellar - The River between the Bridges

Between two bridges I fish
The Stour in winter.
The river is traumatised and
Skittish after rain three days solid,

Unsettled its dimensions,
And carved an old willows
Feet away to drown his
Gangly torso and limbs in the margins.

The flow skirts around him like
A politician, creating a back eddy
That pulls and worries at my float;
Its bright orange tip at odds
With the sepia wash of winter.

The nearest bridge is a century old
and a pleasing bird`s egg blue.
Occasional traffic rattles its roadway,
And its pillars resonate, transmitting
Circular ripples through the water
The colour of builders` tea;

While the furthest bridge sixty yards upstream
Spanned the river for trains that served a district line,
Before Beeching swung his axe and
Inconvenienced the nation. Sedate feet and cycles
Have replaced the clattering iron and steam
That sent swans stumbling skywards.

In the summer when the river is a window,
Like a little hint of Atlantis
Two old bridge pillars are visible,
Encircled by wafting green tendrils
Of streamer weed that reach out
To burnish the silver flanks,
And buff the blood-red fins of passing roach shoals.

Opposite my swim, standing amongst
Papery-brown vegetation
Like summers shed-skin,
Is a true fisherman. In professorial grey-gown,
Stilt-legged and spear-beaked,
A heron basks in skills a million years deep;

That within minutes awards him a perch
the size of a man`s hand,
While I remain fishless, and frozen;
The only heat of the day arising
From the point
Where pen meets paper.

Bob Dellar

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