Fishing with W. B. Yeats

We found the oxbow quiet. Rod and reel
at our sides, our shadows followed tall behind.
The sun hesitated at the horizon,
impatient of our arrival. Far off,

the reeds sang of gods. I sat calm and still,
watching the skillfully worn hands and the
downturn of the old man's wrist with the hope
that a fish might rise. The red hat shadowed

his freckled face and his eyes, which shimmered
still as the line went taut and the surface
of the ink water rippled where a fish
would soon emerge to our imaginations.

I have never since found dawn as cold and passionate.