The softest plunk in near-dark
where bait and hook sink
through water. A turning point
of sorts beckons in cloud banks
beyond a pub car-park’s clunked doors.
It’s not what we’re about:
it’s almost a distraction, in fact.
Overnight, we watch trees
lose shape and disappear.
At dawn, they reassert themselves.
As do we, and the small, frail fish
we’ve yanked up
from entirely predictable depths.
There’s a photo in the cupboard.
It's that or something else
which might put us in the frame.