Piscine Kind Of Kinship (rev)

To glibly say that Joe was sort of odd
quite missed the point. Peculiar may have
been applied quite easily – and kind of weird,
I would have been afraid of him were I a child
(if I ever was a meek and mild retiring kid),
avoiding him as if the plague.

But he was good to Mutti, and that
Mutti was so good to me was cause
enough to bear his eccentricity.

He taught me how to fish; oh, a
blissful art it is, and just as Art exists
beyond relationships we were not friends,
instead we shared a piscine kind of kinship,
a sensitivity in which we learned to tie the
special flies that fished with great success
in streams around his home;

we blended with the river banks, cast
our lines in rhythmic, trance-like ballet dance
that looped and swirled in gently rippled peace,
rarely spoke, we had no need,
we always knew which piece of water each
of us disposed.

We drove the many miles to fabled Lakes
and fished in legendary tarns and breaks,
watched each other’s backs in places
anglers have a wont to go.

On the river I would know within
an inch where Joe would be, studied
his impressive ease of cast, his reach,
retrieve, the placing of the fly, the
gentle rise of rod to set the hook;

it took me many years to even part
achieve his awesome symmetry. I
should, with true humility, mention
I was never near as good.
© 2005, I.D. Carswell