Beech Lake

Spring, and spring of my life also
and life returns to the long green lake,
new water striders, and rustlings below of bream
bug hunting beneath long limbs of beeches

and slow movements of old men fishing
in shade of same: walk down to the water
and stand sun-hot behind sedges, shoes wet, thinking
of snakes. And then snakes come; first one, lazily,

tail stroking, head high, counter clockwise
along the shore, and then another.
And then another. All going the same way round.
Next day, incorrigible youth, I rig a black fly rod

with stout green line tied at butt end and tip end,
a snare. Back to the sun-long lake,
the deep bream, and the fishermen. The snakes
continue their rounds. Cast loop, and wait.

One comes! riding high in clear water, black eye
bright. Caught, the writhing, angry thing
bends the rod double almost. On close inspection
I pronounce its name: common water snake.

Proudly I reach for the looped lithe body
and it turns, sinking four rows of teeth
deep in the base of my thumb. Shamefaced, I
let the bright creature go; it swims

sedately, maddeningly counter clockwise: nothing
has happened to change its agenda. Rod forgotten,
I sink to my knees among sedges, and watch
the fishing men quietly fishing in their beech-shade,

shading my eyes with my still throbbing hand.