Chris Ogborne
Kernow Game Fishing
TIME
Solitude is being alone, the need to be alone, but there is nothing lonely about solitude. Rather, it is time to yourself and high up on this river there is timeless peace, innate tranquility.
The stream is busy yet there is peace even in that haste. Only gradient dictates speed, even for calm water. Time is not a factor. It stands still here, has no meaning. Water flows, but time and space stand still.
The World turns but these rocks remain. Brought here in ice, in an age long gone,
they stand now in time. They are still, content, un-
The birds and the animals are part of the river, even the insects, as much as the
fish. They pass through, touching the water and in time are gone. They use it, like
me, but leave it un-
I take time here but in reality it is borrowed, not taken. Leave nothing but fleeting warmth on the rock, soft prints in the moss. The river will wrap you in time, soothe and comfort, will never let you go.
I watch this river. It runs through my days in a blink of time, yet all of life is here. Just look, to see and to find. Take time, contemplate. Revelation is here, more than you thought it could be.
ATLANTIC SALMON
Early days in tiny pebbles, washed and moved by the flow
Pushed around, wary of all, hide from the Kingfishers dive
Siblings abound, life competitive, risks to take for growths sake
And always a wary eye above, below, beyond
A Parr now, colours of mixed silver, brown and mottled flanks
perfect fish in miniature save for outsize fins that hint at future power
Chase every fly, every nymph, every fleeting chance of food
Happy abandon of youth, no cares, too small and too fast for the Otter
Ocean beckons, inexorable demand fuels migrations urge
The first taste of salt, excitement, new flavours and confusion of sound
Waves move the small fish, the mighty power of the Atlantic
disdainful as it throws the tiny body on a whim
A year on and change is overwhelming, a proper salmon now
The pure silver of the young grilse, strong and vital
Supremely confident, feeding still the only thing that matters
Way out on the Atlantics depths, packing on condition and weight
Near miss with a seal just one of many hazards, so much danger
Long lines of mist nets, barely visible but still so deadly
As gannets dive above the fish swims deep, taking more squid
Prepare for the odyssey that draws nearer with every day
A false start, the grilse and others like him sample the river mouth
but no run this year, time to play and grow stronger still
Sand eels spray in the air as protein fills the silver flanks
Another year and ten more pounds, winter feed completes the fish.
Urge too strong now, the pull, force that cannot be denied
The faintest taste of peat in the estuary mouth says ‘home’
Strokes of the broad tail push into the river, smaller salmon and peal defer,
The mighty shape among them too big to challenge
The angler spins, knows that for generations salmon have held this pool
The flickering lure annoys the fish, he snaps dismissively
Resistance felt he surges upstream over rocks and boulders, massive power
The angler stares in disbelief at ruptured line that could never hold
Journeys end, gills pump for oxygen, lying spent on the redds with urge dimmed
Re-
The salmon turns his head downstream once more, ragged fins and tarnished flanks
The ocean will mend. The journey begins again.
THE BEACH
Ripples in sand carry the eye far away, horizon shimmers in midday heat
Yellow and gold meet Atlantic blue, less clear where sea and sky combine
Silver shapes over turquoise shallows, falling to darker hues in the channel
Gulls hunt scraps as the tide recedes, here a crab claw, there a single shell
Soft breezes lift grains of sparkling sand, play with their fragile weight
Send them drifting over the beach like wisps of smoke, to drop and die
or form another layer in the dunes. Marram grass pushes through, seeks light
Driftwood lays high and forgotten, bleached white, thrown by uncaring waves
Weeds of all colour hold life close to rocks, safe from prowling bass.
Small crabs scuttle away, shy of approaching shadows, hide beneath wrack
Casts of worm show industry beneath, razor clams dive too deep for the spade
Teeming life in pools, small fish brazen, content as they soak up the sun
Every colour thrown back, reflected by golden sand into purest light
The glare meets the sun, sand banks become water surface, in turn becoming sky.
Boats left stranded by the tide lay on their sides, dormant, waiting
for water to return. Their purpose, their very lives suspended.
Stranded sand eels skate aimlessly through ebbing pools, liquid world shrinking,
their panic too real as they count minutes to doom or the turning tide
Low water comes, waves subside, pull of the moon gathers strength for the flow
The incessant cycle returns life to the beach, brings salvation to the river
THE FIRST SWALLOW
Welcome back little traveller, pathfinder to the summer clan
Harbinger of lengthening days, lighter nights and stronger sun
Be still awhile, preen battered feathers into order
African skies are left behind, no thought to stay in safety
Migrations urge too strong, irresistible, flocks of thousands
The need to go, now, fly north to birthplace and destiny
Through storms in the Bay, gales screaming
louder than the Lanners call as his strike is missed
Too fleet of wing, too alert, others feed the falcons lust
Some linger here, take insect fuel from lake or stream
but you fly through, driven, the restless pull lends speed
Elation in the wing, desire in the heart
Guided by sun and stars, scents rising from the warming land
Gibraltar the beacon, fly high over Spain avoiding hunters
Un-
The wave-
rising from the South, with ships a mile below
Distant remembered green, a softer landscape beckons
The lake shines blue, Cornish moors familiar
The lanes, the trees, grazing sheep blink at your fleeting shape
The barn, the open window as before
Sit still on telegraph wires, look around you
That driving force dimmed, replete, spent for another year
Rest now. You’re home.
CAMEL DAYS
I walk on my river, the place I call home
With the murmur of water I’m never alone
The scent of the moors and the softness of May
To wash through my life, my being, my day
The salmon are safe here, I wish them no harm
The rod is for company, it’s not on my arm
I see them in resting, they gather their strength
Then run this whole river, just mocking its length
Dippers dance on the water, defying the laws
That say they should fall in the white water claws
The Olives that play with the light in their wing
And the Wren who takes food here, too busy to sing
The Swallows fly low as they feed on the flies
Trout that stay wary but can’t help but rise
Martins take mud to embellish their nest
While the Otter just sits on the rock for a rest
Those who take charge of our lives and our World
Should spend one day here, see the magic unfurled
To feel this much peace, the balm of this land
To see that the answer still lies in our hand
I sit on the rocks and I think about life
And I wonder at all of the worry, the strife
It’s gone in a moment, it never was there
As a soft Camel breeze makes a mess of my hair
EVENING ON THE CAMEL
The days heat is gone, fragile warmth remains with only glow a reminder
Bright ripples give way to patchy shade, the river flows languid through dark pools
Sea trout stir and leave the deeps, alert for any food yet still wary
The angler treads soft through bankside growth, fly lands featherlight on water
Rings spread on the river, parr and peal feed together, only part visible
A Kingfisher takes a last minnow before seeking safety in the burrow
Fleeting glimpse of Otter as he too heads home, sinuous, gliding through reeds
Water crashes as salmon leap, pulled upstream by an urge older than the rocks
Wash of light in the western sky, crowning glory of the perfect day
Swallows skim low but Swifts hunt impossible heights, riding thermal spirals
Invisible now, no need of nests comfort, sleep on the wing these short nights
True mastery of air, sleek sickle wings make the sky their own
The wind dies with the day, ever softening, hushed whispers on the water
No more than the breathing land, movements of air too faint to see
insects dance their rites then fall to the surface film, spent
Serpent currents form on the darkening river, floral scent lays rich and heady.
Skies change again, losing colour yet gaining contrast in a hundred pastel shades
of the suns farewell. Streaks of high cloud reflect the last of the gold
Small birds make single notes, the cry of curlew carries in the dusk, mournful, sad
Final flights of gulls seek lofty roosts on far cliffs, safety in nights blanket.
Poetry