THE TROUT Flat on the bank I parted Rushes to ease my hands In the water without a ripple And tilt them slowly downstream To where he lay, light as a leaf, In his fluid sensual dream. Bodiless lord of creation I hung briefly above him Savouring my own absence Senses expanding in the slow Motion, the photographic calm That grows before action. As the curve of my hands Swung under his body He surged, with visible pleasure. I was so preternaturally close I could count every stipple But still cast no shadow, until The two palms crossed in a cage Under the lightly pulsing gills. Then (entering my own enlarged Shape, which rode on the water) I gripped. To this day I can Taste his terror on my hands. -- John Montague