The four fish

The four fish snagged on a birch twig
and that weighty expounder the priest,
the rim of the net resting against the shed
& the sun as sharp as a thimble
               dropping
behind grey veils of the hill. Dusk!
& my father is weary & happy
but hardly listening
just the occasional grunt
as he polishes
   prepares   & packs   repairs
and reviews split hooks & spooled line
     in the shadows of the veranda
               & the toolshed
     comes & goes
          in a meditation so practical
no-one can speak it in words,
     but it ends in "coffee".
And still as we play cards
          sit round the table joking
his spirit moves in the dusk
     his spirit moves back upstream
               to the troutpool.