Spey

By Erin Woodward

 

Temperaments of Spring
digress in morning’s dew.
Weighted heart of man
trudges through the fray.

Nakedness of season looms
In brittle Hawthorn branches.
His pocket of water dotted
in kaleidoscopes of blue.

He wades forth with penitent heart
casting in a silent metronome
of steeled waters sweet.
He alone among the grey.

 

About the Author
Erin Woodward is a freelance outdoor writer and poet with published work in Field & Stream, Tail, and Gun Dog Magazine, amongst others. He believes circus peanuts to be the worst candy ever invented. Erin resides in Kansas with his wife and children. One day he hopes to fly fish with Monte Burke.