No Fishing on Sundays by Anne Eyries

No Fishing on Sundays

You go with him this time

Mum whispers, packing a picnic.

I tuck Dad in the passenger seat.

At his favourite spot

I fold out two chairs. I watch,

will remember how he reads the pools

for salmon he won’t catch;

spears of blue irises;

red deer eyeing us

from the opposite bank;

the bird flying low, seizing a fish,

an osprey he says,

first time I’ve seen one here.

Anne Eyries has poetry published or forthcoming in Amsterdam Quarterly, Consilience, Dream Catcher, Feral, Green Ink Poetry, Hyacinth Review, London Grip New Poetry, Moss Puppy Magazine, Piker Press, and others. She lives in France.