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