Trout in clear water lying, cool and brown,

Nose to the thrusting element that flows

Over and under and along your flanks,

What do you care for me, who, looking down,

Seeks your limpid world that quiet repose

His spirit craves?  Would that such flowered banks

As these, far distant from the troubled town,

Offered to me a like retreat from foes,

A noiseless buoyancy.  But little thanks

Can I expect, or any interest shown

By you, for on the dancing hover flies

You meditate till, lured beyond control,

You leap, not knowing that to death you rise.

So might I snatch, and, snatching, lose my soul.


Weekly Times     17.8.62