I am squatting on the riverbank, watching

you fish for rainbow trout. Six years old.

Handling the line like a violinist, you pluck

away with each vibration, picturing the surface

of the water as a composition unraveling

each note and quaver. Your daughters

are downstream, catching minnows in jam

jars. Shrinking like Hughes’ pike, soon

they will be part of the river while you

are lost amongst the grasses, feeling

the riverbed for signs of a sure footing

even though it’s 2021 and Dordogne

has been reduced to something that slips

out while trying to remember a familiar

tune to distract from the shaking teacup

and spilt sugar.

Previously published in Wilda Morris’ Poetry Challenge