Alyson Hallett



Fish Whisperer

The loch plays the game it likes to play
on windless days, double this, double that,

sheep/sheep  cow/cow  rowan/rowan.
Eyes twice-fill and only a frill

of white at the water’s edge remains
un-reflected. Splish-splash  –

an orbiting sound speeds
from the brackish

depths – fish so fast we miss it.
Lynn calls it back and

it hurtles up, brown blade
of trout driving skyward.

She calls again. It comes again,
a miracle of scales slicing

the day. Circles ripple
and multiply. A man in a boat casts

lines thin as floss, out then in then
out again, whip-whip-whip on the loch.

Don’t be fooled little fish,
Lynn says, they’re not flies

but hooks that want to bite you.




Alyson Hallett‘s latest book is On Ridgegrove Hill (Atlantic Press). The book was written during her time as poet-in-residence in Charles Causley’s house in Launceston,

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