Territory

It came from water like a shattered mirror,
lit by sun and whitened at noon.
It came from a pool
where evening light left tiger skin on the pebbled bed.
It became a wet jewel that quivered in our net,
sun-spotted beyond a staring eye,
a torpedo of muscle that bent
from side to side.

How we liked
the slip of it into the bucket.
Once we had one we caught one more
and then another,
three of them dashing like bullets
against the sky-blue floor
of the bucket, my son's head down
almost into the tamed water,
his first knowledge of the brown trout
that we took to our house.

They bolted for cover
to the back of the tank,
a week later came out for bloodworm,
but one grew faster than the others,
wanted the tank to itself.
Silver scales fell when they met.

So we went to the water,
my son leaning as he carried the bucket,
and slipped them in,
saw skins darken to brown
as they came home.

We still hold the river in our minds,
imagine trout in the mountain hollow,
hidden by shadow and fragments of reflected sky.
We know them surrounded by stars,
by storms, by sun and moon,
striving for space in their dark pool.



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Colin