thee streamside companion & angler's frequent respite

treatise, pomes, fine etchings & lyrics re. and not re. flyfishing (with an angle)

Monday, February 06, 2006

fare thee well

These French cunts have been considerable accommodating to us, and now we is heading right into the rocks. I is torn... my hart instructs me to separate Billy Clark’s roughs from this frolic before calamity overtakes, by my head knows that, while gallant, this effort is impossible. On the other hand, My hart also instructs me to scour this place for that red-haired girl, but my head knows the ghost of hir smile will haunt me night after night on the river. Why drag hir with me? Why hump that weight when I have so far to go, so much to lift already.
But I ain’t like that. I ain’t the type to just pack up and stow me hart - to pound it into a keg and chuck it into the hold. Harts can’t be jerked, can’t be salted and stored, smoked, pickled in bitter brine. Just a bit of blood keeps them beating and thumping deep inside there. Harts ain’t river rocks. Harts is the fish that dash between them rocks, a-flashin' in the sun; breaking the surface in a shower ay gold and silver. Soon, I reckon, my hart will be a catched up in a river cold and a river deep. And it is then that I decide to get to trackin’. I put my head to swivel and I tries to spot hir on the floor, but she is standing there behind me, right in my shadow. Pri-veet, she says, pretty as a sparrow. And I gives her my silly little salute again. And I knows I am gaping at her like I is afflicted, but my thoughts is stacked up like a log jam. But this girl, she’s fair and fine and her hair shines like gold and she’s just grinning at me.
I thinks hard Pardonnez-moi., I says removing my lid, Je ne sais pas votre nom. And she smiles even bigger and then giggles into her frock. Mon nom?
Finally, it’s my turn to smile, and I nod my head I says, “oui”
Marie, she says, offering up her soft, small fingers. And I takes them precious fingers in my hands, just to feel them, just to remember her touch. I light up a full flame smile and asks, Dance? And she grabs my hand, but instead of shuffling to the floor, she makes a beeline right out the door, laughing as she heads out into the night. I’ve still got her tiny fingers, and she wraps them around mine and squeezes tight. And the silver flash of my hart rises and and I give her hand the most precious squeeze back.
We gets to strolling down the track, over to the rise what overlooks the river. When we crest the rise, I can hear the river, can smell it and can feel the barge down there, rolling and creaking against the bank. And Marie, she presses herself against me. Why? Who is this copper-haired French girl? Why is she standing on this rise with a dog-soldier headed into the heart of godless savagery? But I ain’t got the time to unriddle it as I feel her small hand rubbing over my back. I steps into hir, pulling hir into me, hearing that green fabric rustle, smelling hir hair, feeling her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing. Marie, I whispers.


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