Bishop’s Trout
I tramped through the marshlands, boots succumbing to floating fauna,
With a fly rod cast out to open water,
I would leave the city streets to reach this transcendental scene,
All stood still but for a cool, gentle breeze,
The only tug on my arm, was from the perch that I caught,
When the float plummeted down to the depths of the loch,
This was different, the forceful fish fled as I grasped the rod,
It would crack the logs as it thrashed along,
I’ve seen trout before, I’d never seen it as big,
The line stressed and pressed as I was reeling it in,
It’s weight was a match for my sizeable doubt,
But not long had passed before I tired it out,
From its fin I lifted, water dripped on my feet,
It was different to see such a mammoth amphibian just admitting defeat,
It’s eyes hung lower than the reeds they wade through,
It’s body and face tinted by the dullest grey hue,
It didn’t fight at all, it wasn’t worth the hassle,
It’s cheeks were scarred by accolades of battle,
Every hook that failed, every line that snapped,
Each time it prevailed, but now it’s time has passed,
No resistance was given, it inspired my thought;
Bishop’s trout just wanted all the fighting to stop.