The Road To The River Mourne

Photo credit Bill Kilchacky

The Road To The River Mourne

 

I place my feet upon the ground

A ribbon of grey stretching, reflecting

Sky’s pensive slushy attire

Perfect for casting a line

Beyond the bridge

Whose name I never learned

 

A cacophony of sounds

Soft lapping as water gurgles leisurely on

 Humming, a soothing melodic sound

Soft whistle of the wind whispering

In the reeds that adorn the

Slippery grassy river’s verge

 

The hesitant footfall as a dog walker pauses

Then passes on not disquieting the

The plop of the salmon silver scales reflecting

 Beneath the rippling surface

Entices me to put one foot

One foot in front of the other

 

And take the path to the river

I would if I could but walk

I’d followed that path

Familiar to me as the back of my hand

Between the houses where folk like me

Eke out their daily existence

 

Oblivious that tomorrow morn

They might like me be

Powerless to fish the river Mourne

If I could I’d will them to fathom

The riverbank dressed in purple stardom

The pleasure of dancing salmon

 

Replete, my mind senses the thrill of the pull

The first catch of the day wriggling furiously

And Nature’s glorious tapestry spread

 Beneath my wellington shod foot

 As the rush of adrenalin rises

 To meet the challenge

 

Taking the path to the river

Fishing the River Mourne

 In my bed