The Fly

The Fly • this painting is sold

The Way of a Trout With a Fly
G.E.M. Skues • 1921

Oh, thrilling the rise at the lure that is dry,
When the slow trout comes up to the slaughter,
Yet rather would I
Have the turn at my fly,
The cunning brown wink under water.

Let the Purist rejoice in the fly that he dries,
And look down on my practice with hauteur,
But for me the surprise
Of the flash of the rise,
The rosy-brown wink under water.

Oh, give me the day when the fresh from the wold,
Comes down with rich colour of porter,
And tinges with gold
That is flashing and bold
That yellow-green wink under water.

Or a day on some smooth-flowing stream from the chalk,
When Aeolus no ruffle hath wrought her,
The keen subtle stalk
And the reel's sudden talk,
At the rusty-brown wink under water.

I care for no trout that comes up with asplash
To capture the fly that I've brought her,
Let the trout that will dash
At my fly with a flash,
But tip me the wink under water.

When trouting is over, and autumn is here,
The days growing shorter and shorter, The grayling will steer
For my fly with mere
Little hint of a wink under water.

So plunging and rolling I lead her ashore
And as to the bank I escort her,
She repenteth her sore,
That she'll never no more
Give me that silver-brown wink under water.

So here's to the fish that is crafty and shy,
With the lore that Dame Nature has taught her,
Yet we'll lure her to die,
As she captures our fly
With that giddy brown wink under water.

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