The Trout Stream

On a day that was pink and yellow, Pink where the laurel grew, Dragging the stream with its blossoms, Shaking it off like dew Where the wind caught up its branches, On a day that was yellow with sun Gilding the foam going over The falls where the speckled trout run, I stood on the banks for an hour, My thoughts as cool as the fern As I saw a fisherman casting, As I watched him twist and turn Deep in the rushing of waters That carried the sun on its way Over the rocks and past the laurel, Bursting in golden spray.

“How beautiful here,” I whispered Quite to myself as I stood At the edge of the stream’s wild music That woke the quiet wood, “How at peace the cedars and mountains,” I added to what I had said, But a shout in the bright waters shook me And suddenly I turned my head To see in the warm yellow morning, Like an arrow suspended in flight, A trout with a rhythm like music. Lovely it was in the light Of a day that was pink and yellow, A peaceful day I had thought, And my heart leaped up as I watched it Fighting the line that had caught It up and over the falling Of waters that were its home, Up from the banks of the laurel, Over the spending of foam.

Then I turned away from the fern banks And I took the valley road, And when the hours had sifted their sands And weariness heavied my load, I paused in a cooling patch of shade And cursed with an honest breath That a pink and yellow morning Should know the silver twitch of death.