A short poem from A Mouthful of Space dust by Gavin Turner

Available to buy here

Bait

They squirm in a tight sealed tub,

Waters’ edge,

Out casts the line to the far side,

Awaiting the dipping float and snap back

The rod hovers, majestic

In judgement

We sit in silent tension,

Contemplating if a shove forward

Might break the tension of the water

The rain weighs in

To our reeling thoughts

A squelch on the path,

Glancing passers by

pause our anger

Indifferent as the sullen tench,

Sulking in unseeing silt

The sun is a dawning bruise

Gently lapping

At immoveable feet

Not ready to be unhooked

From the shore

Keep the line between us tight,

bait and hooks and passing glances

are just squirms of words

seething in the mornings mire