by PAT SAUNDERS
bream bite
when the tide is high
the tranquil river mouth
gasps for air
kissing
the rapacious windy wild sea
its swollen banks
our sunlounge as
we patiently await
the serendipitous nibble
the line requires little weight
just a smidge of prawn will do
our arms
like bowling machines
flinging lines over
and over
into the cool deep green
the fish gorge as
sun-baked
timid and twitchy hands
fail to land the catch
fortuitous success achieved with
the splashing silver streak
maddeningly wriggling free
in a flash