A lost poem by Norman MacCaig, a Scottish poet who died in 1996.

Rich Day:

All day we fished
the loch clasped in the throat
of Canisp, that scrawny mountain,
and caught trout and treasures.
We walked home, ragged millionaires,
our minds jingling, our fingers rustling the the air.
And now, lying on the warm sand, we see
the rim of the full moon
rest on a formal corrugation of water
at the feet of a Britannia cloud:
sea and sky, one golden sovereign
that will never be spent.

Norman MacCaig


Well, *I* liked it...

Back to the gin.

paul

and you could be in the 'fly fishing only' section of the North Umpqua here in Oregon. A place listed as 'One of the 50 places I want to fish before I die.'

And for many, many good reasons. It is one of those 'special places' on this Planet if you own a fly rod.

fae

I like it too. Well time we had a poetry thread again.

Beautiful. What loch do you suppose he refers to? A mate and I nearly got blown into Na Barrack one windy night camping in the gullet between Canisp and Suilven.....happy memories!

M

__________________
The sun pushed dark spokes of melt and sparkle
Across the fields of hoar. And the river steamed -
Flint-olive.


http://northcountryangler.blogspot.com

I don't know the area at all, so I've no idea which loch he may be referring to. The poem caught my imagination because it describes experiences which are universal: as Fred pointed out, change the name and it could be almost anywhere.....

North Umpqua sounds tempting!

Paul