Between two houseboats in the rain
An angler pits his wily brain
Against the Bream, his nightly aim.
Are anglers quite sane?
Coat sodden by the summer rain,
He casts, recasts and casts again,
Striving with sinews, heart and brain.
Are anglers truly sane?
Beside his rod rest other tools
Nocturnal anglers can use,
Boxed carefully like precious jewels.
Are anglers fools or sane?
Hickling sleeps deep. He fishes still
Eyes watchful, wondering if he’ll fill
His empty net with fin and Gill.
Are anglers wholly sane?
His black peaked cap like leaky roof,
Jackets now needing wax reproof,
Mind Bream-imbued like aching tooth.
Are any anglers sane?
Umbrella-clad he lasts the night
Eyes fixed upon his far-cast light,
Hands tensed for action at a bite.
But anglers think they’re sane…
But though the World deride and mock
Jesus chose Peter for his Rock
So fishers all ignore the knocks;
God only knows they’re sane.
Hickling Broad. July 1993