Piscator's Vigil Poem by Jojoba Mansell

Stone still, amidst the reeds, boots dressed in stinking mud,
breath fogging in the iron cold air.
Unmoving he sits, a vigil, a game of chess, hunting,
his foe unseen, changing the rules at a whim.
The denizens of the waterside pay him no mind,
coots, like bald fryers, glide past, off to matins in the bulrush.
Robins, bankside beggars, lurk close by, asking for alms,
glad of the maggots, wriggling in a futile bid for freedom.
He shifts leaden feet, wrings ice-veined hands,
eyes never waver from the solitary red float, riding the chop in the margins.
His hand tightens over cork, a bob? A twitch? No, no bite.
His net lays dry beside him, unused, maybe will remain so,
he sits, he waits, he watches.
A piscatorial vigil, sat by the river,
his cathedral, his patience his unanswered prayer.