The Catch

Babbling waters through the brook bed race,
Sighing willows dip and trail their hanging leaves,
And swallows skim the surface in their rapid pace ,
To catch the mites and tiny flies as they twist and weave. 
All on a summer’s day.

Along the bank small boys tread, jam pots in hands,
To store expected catch of minnows and stickleback,
That flick and turn in shallows showing speckled bands,
Their nets trawl the depths as in Wellingtons they stand.
All on a summers day.

Soon bored by such a placid task they splash,
And shout about, disturbing sleepy mothers on the bank.
Bending down, they pick up pebbles to throw about,
In the abandoned way that always leads to grief.
All on a summers day.

The sun is hot this afternoon and eyes soon start to close,
Stretched out in somulant repose their forms begin to sag.
In dreamless sleep, a blessed rest from life’s intrusions,
And so the little drama unfolds without their all seeing eye.
All on a summers day.

It started with a push, a playful one in sport,
But near the surface of such youth retaliation lurks,
And push on push stronger comes till one is caught,
Toppled in the racing water of the brook. 
All on a summers day.

By the weeping willow tree along the herons bank,
A fisherman at his rod did work to catch elusive fish,
When his hook a jerkin caught and he gave a mighty hank,
And pulled a weedy cherubim into his fishers net,

A sleepy mum turned and sighed, 'Why are you so wet.'
All on a summers day.