Yates

(Just pure admiration for a master of his craft).

The familiar stench of mudded reeds
and dew-fresh, herb sweet grass,
a most unlikely blend
with freshly brewing tea and dampening clothes.

Gun-metal blues and greys of a threatening sky
lay heavy, weighted on his bowstring slender back,
arched, stoic, sturdy as ancient cane
Slim fingers nurse the line’s deft pulse.

Sparse grizzled chin frames the candour of a wistful smile
and takes a somewhat tacit stroke,
as prizes dwell unseen beneath broad platter leaves
and forthright bulrush spears.

The timid crimson sergeants mill about unseen,
his patient eyes keep watch into the watery world,
as wicker creaks, once more the rod’s tip points
in knowing accusation as the master strikes.

© Graham Sherwood 2009