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ALISON CHISHOLM
Fishing
I cast the line, let my hook dip to settle above stirred sand until mud flurries still. Sharp in green depths it waits, watches ripples break on stone, reaches when a hint of fish gleams.
The bait is snatched; float bobs, and I reel in a glittering wedge that spins and dances, writhes and flaps. I catch it, cold and slithering, ease the hook, feel it thrashing.
Its silver glistens early summer days of paddling in the stream, of reed and rush and willow catkins. Chill and splash made small legs shiver; grass scent tickled nostrils; frog percussion throbbed.
And there were picnics, tomato sandwiches and lemonade, races through dandelion and clover; then home for tea, warm baths and tales of prince and witch and once-upon-a-time.
The small fish flickers. I throw it back, watch as its movements synchronise with water's rhythm. I cast another line, trawl for another flash of silver, gather fresh harvest from memory's drenched stores.
Serial Caller
January slouches in shadows, shrugs into his trenchcoat, pulls down his hat, darkens afternoons.
He spits contempt - sleet that rattles on your windows, rain battering the porch.
Ragged on park bench and pavement he coughs a fog of 'flu, hawks pneumonia.
When he sleeps the moon ices night, frosts grimly scraps of newspaper gusted in corners.
He's a stayer: slugs it out to the last day, grips February's coat tails, holds fast.
His grumbling still echoes when March shakes out winter's sheets. you just know he'll be back.
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