A little poetry....

This first poem I wrote a while back about my favourite place...Redmire Pool.

In the beautiful rolling borderlands of England and Wales, lies a Carp fishing flagship, complete with sails.
A Mecca for many from days gone before, to go down in specimen hunting folklore.
Just a farm pond of three acres in size, a place of sheer beauty, a sight for sore eyes.
It started way back before world war broke out, 50 small fish from a farm that sold Trout.
Slowly they grew into Carp to behold, Mirrors of chestnut, Commons of gold.
The legends of old were true pioneers; they moulded our sport through the forthcoming years.
Bob Richards was first to discover the pool, he knew all too well he’d discovered a jewel.
The cane rod arched over, the battle took place and the fish tore off with incredible pace.
Line he gained back on the spool of his reel, soon he was fetching the gaff from his creel.
A new record Carp and the world had been rocked, the secrets of Redmire had just been unlocked.
Ingham and Walker were next on the scene, never before were two anglers so keen.
They started so quickly to get off the mark, twas Maurice’s rod that took on the arc.
A 28 pounder was hoisted ashore, a wonderful start but they both longed for more.
Walkers turn next in the old Willow pitch; his heart skipped a beat as his line gave a twitch.
The hook driven home the water exploded, his trusty mark 4 test curve fully loaded.
With both angler and fish now reaching exhaustion, the netting was tackled with ultimate caution.
A fish so immense its bulk was unreal, his breathing still heavy from his recent ordeal.
Another new record, how could this be true; a Carp called Clarrissa sent a Zoo.
At 44 pound could there really be more, two records in two years never witnessed before.
Eddie’s monster the talk of the town, the Bishop’s first capture the gauntlet laid down.
Tom Mintram, John Nixon the list grew and grew, Jack Hilton, Bill Quinlan the talented few.
At the forefront of angling the pool then remained, the Carp were outwitted as knowledge was gained.
Yatesy and Hutchy arrived the same day, to show how to catch them in their special way.
Up in the shallows was where Chris could be found, always the stalker not making a sound.
Obsessive, eccentric, a little bit mad, and an uncanny knack for location he had.
His cane and his pen were his fondest of friends, and two grains of sweetcorn where the great Carp upends.
His line starts to move the hook is struck home, the Bishop’s sheer power turns water to foam.
All the while praying his knots would hold strong, his body exhausted the fight took so long.
But finally over the mesh slid his prize, it was then that they realised the extent of its size.
Another new record of that they were sure, long live Redmire forever more.

This next one is a take on William Wordsworth's "I wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

I wandered elegantly as a quill
That floats on high o'er brooks and streams,
When all at once my quill stood still,
An eddy, of golden hopes and dreams;
Beside the river, beneath the clouds,
Fluttering and dancing away from crowds.

Continuous as the roach that shimmer
And twinkle on their gravelly bed,
They feed until the day grows dimmer,
Along the margin full of dread:
For big pike saw I at a glance,
Tossing its fins in sprightly dance.

The roach beside them danced, but they
Out-foxed the jaws of certain danger;
The colossal pike sought out its prey,
In in search of silver, toothy river ranger!
I gazed—and gazed—the scene unfolds
A tapestry of greens, reds and golds:

For oft, when on my creel I sit
In vacant or contemplative mood,
But for now dry fly bumps across the grit
No time now for idle interlude;
My basket with sparkling brook trout fills,
I wander lonely homeward through the daffodils.