Four-four

When I was a kid, going asleep

meant Eric Cantona,

the same moment spun out

like a careworn disc

until delicious grey arrived.

I never bothered to watch

him score – peace for me

lay in seeing him paw the ball

across the halfway line,

the ruffle of burst nets

rippling in his stride.

It’s a different picture now -

a man on a green shrub plateau,

sub-Arctic in its every hair,

a slate river diagonally

across his sight. He casts

a white line and waits until it curls,

drags, and sinks the fly.

He flicks it up and back then

drives it forward, spraying

the air with crystal light

as the fly dries and drops

like a feather to its bed.

I watch and wait, and the sun

grumbles home, each time the

same: the fly, by dark, is sunk.