The Quarry
ALONG the green banks by the waterside the anglers sit and idle summer through, gazing at their floats that nod ,end ride above the gleaming cool where fishes slide elusive under sky-reflecting blue.
Out on wide frozen marshes speared with reeds till winter sunset the numbed fowlers lie, masking net and trap with rush and weeds, waiting to lure..some wanderer when it feeds weary from flight across the snow-brimmed sky.
I'll sit a patient year to tame a thought, listen and wait until the bait is taken, and out of depth or height the creature's caught and closed within the cage of words I brought: then from this tranced lingering watch I waken.
Under the summer bank smooth water lies where fish are flickering by weed and stone. Brown winter .sleeps beneath its icy skies as high as cloud or wind the migrant flies, remote as thought whose words are still unknown.
URSULA WOOD.
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