Every village in this country, has a quaint old village inn, Where the ale is better than elsewhere and yarns are spun within, Some tales are lewd and risqué, but most are legendary and old, The older getting bolder as the quaffing takes a hold.
Now most villages in this country, have a scenic sylvan pond, With ducks and geese and moor-hens and shrubs with trees beyond, And cress and reeds and lily-pads with nodding coots upon, Where fishes play, and rushes sway, and bunting sing their song.
And every village in this country, which has this open dike, Has one story told about it and its resident ‘Percy Pike’, This fabled aquatic creature, ten feet long at least, Eats its prey every day of twenty living beast.
This country’s legendary monster, consumes all creatures at its will, Including dogs and billy goats until he's had his fill, Then on the stroke of midnight, at that precise bewitching hour, He leaves the pond for the land beyond seeking humans to devour.
And so it is, in this country, that anglers set forth to bait, To lure this satanic being to an unsuspecting fate, With plugs and spinners and deadbaits and everything they should, To offer Percy little mercy and end his reign for good.
But this country’s fishermen’s dreams lay thwarted all the way, Because Percy Pike is cunning and ninety, if he’s a day, Or is he just a figment; a slimy miscreation, Of those unstable village fables and that gross intoxication?
FROGGYMORE
There’s a frog, down there on the Lilly pad, looking up at me, With big brown eyes he looks happy with a smiling face, His mouth, turned upwards, with constant grin, studying me, fervently, Just another friend I’ve made, here, where nature, mystically, falls into place.
My polarised glasses however, indicate hazard afoot for the little stranger, Through the water, I see a pike, looking upward at a mere something to ingest, I agonise whether to frighten my new pal, into jumping out of danger, Will he know, that if I do, my gesture will be in his interest?
Serious fishing water - Ex Gravel pit - Hertfordshire
AN ANGLER’S FELICITY
As the water fowl scurry about, with awkward hustle and bustle, As the breeze comes gently off the lake, to make the rushes rustle, As the sun begins to rise again, above a distant mound, As the night-time mist melts away, exposing the dewy ground, An angler in his bivouac waits, in expectation of the take, And his gaze is seized in wonderment, at the splendour of his lake, Then in one split second he springs to life, at the bobbing of the quill, And all about is blotted out, as he concentrates his skill.
HARBOURLIGHTS
The darkness had settled for an hour or more, When at last we headed toward the shore, And when the quay-side came into sight, It painted a picture of pure delight.
The scene was as if on canvas etched, With yellows, whites and oranges sketched, Buildings stood out in differing form, While cranes and derricks stood all forlorn. Abandoned and silent till tomorrow arrives, When once more cogs will be set upon drives, There are people in miniature idling the landing, Picked out by the lamplight some walking, some standing.
The flotilla is moored with un-rigged masts, Bobbing and bouncing, ropes holding them fast, A man-made twilight frames this magical scene, A picture excelling the best ever dream.
THE CARP ANGLER’S REWARD
With no leaves, or waterside flowers, My winter, is beautifully bleak, As I angle, for several hours, For those chub, I temporarily seek.
The water is similarly, dispossessed, Of submerged, summertime growth, And nature, has accordingly blessed, Landscape, and waterway, - both.
Crystal clear, is the sky when at frost, And the bottom of the lake, likewise clear, When all flora, seems to be lost, And only rooks, and robins play near.
But this beauty, though dank is fine, ‘Till the lilies, and catkins re-appear, And the snowdrops, gesture a sign,
HEAR NO EVIL
Not many people know how silence sounds, Perfect, total, not a thing, is what I mean, But for sea anglers, often, silence abounds, On a becalmed summer sea, fishing the bream.
When the engine is cut, and hooks baited at last, And movement of the boat, does not endure, And all the lines have, overboard been cast, It’s that moment I yearn for, when silence is pure.
MOMENTS LOST
As an angler, I am about when most are sleeping, I see things of beauty not many perceive, I hear sounds that are more in keeping, With artificial worlds of make believe.
But they are there for you to enjoy, like we, Us fishermen, who leave our homes at dawn, And venture to river, lake or sea, And cherish each moment a new day is born.
