THE MAYFLIES 93 



mind, then for the initiate in angler's lore 

 tlie matutinal oblation must hold a deeper, 

 sweeter savour. This is the hour when, 

 pipe alight, we dawdle, selecting flies and 

 soaking casts, adding a fine drawn point. 

 Eternal hope sits at our side whispering 

 of ways to circumvent a certain lusty 

 trout located overnight just at the corner 

 of the withy-bed. 



For me no pipe has tasted half so sweet 

 since that morning of early June when 

 Jean Pierre and I went fishing. On such 

 a day you smoke it only as far as you 

 must tread the dusty high-road ; like to the 

 faithful who loose their shoes from oiF 

 their feet when entering holy ground, so 

 you knock out the dottle on the last 

 kilometre-stone and then turn off into 

 Pan's sun-splashed temple. 



We took the chemin creuoc^ a leafy way 

 cut between high hedgerows heavy with 

 the scent of honeysuckle. A tunnel of 

 green and gold, so deep that its dew does 

 not dry till noon, but above the sun 

 caught a wild-rose spray where a yellow- 

 hammer hung for a moment, and then 

 fluttered on to the next, to swing there 



