It’s hardly helpless thrall
but nevertheless true
that a man like me
enjoys his fly-fishing rods
for their names
as well as their actions,
for their smooth finish,
the shape of the eyes,
the neat whipping, the lacquer,
the compact butts
into which reels fit snugly.
They confirm that split cane
and fibre glass weren’t
the last word,
weren’t all that they were
cracked up to be.
So let us praise
carbon fibre and graphite
as marking an advance:
the Winston strong as a
renowned wartime leader,
the Old Smuggler hinting
at clandestine approaches,
the Temple Fork redolent
of homage to rivers roamed
by anglers wizard-like
with rods in hand, rods
that enhance rhythms
that speak of grace.
When there’s sunshine aplenty
and an upstream breeze,
and I’ve a rod that works
just fine, beneficence arrives
like a promise of The Good Life.
At long last I can say,
of Temple Fork especially,
Well Made in the USA.
Brian Turner
poeticbrandscapes.art 