Under pines,

in that bay

behind the clumps

of charlock,

knotgrass,

a glint of varnish –

a boy raising his rod

to cast again.

He's dragged

tackle down

through dawn-

drenched

bracken

to be alone,

possessed

of something taut,

intense,

to listen to

his rod's glass-fibre length

swish like a blade

through lifting earlymorning

light,

then that insect dynamo

within the woods,

within his head,

resume its awesome

massive thrum.

He wants the world

all his

to reckon with,

to shimmer with promises,

whatever blue-backed carp

might nudge the undersides of leaves;

he wants this day

to dawn

slowly on him

like the start of an eternity,

shy,

meticulous boy,

who one year back

in a different, ruined time,

sorted his mother

with a knife.