First thing in the morning I wade into the river
all alone. No-one accompanies, awaits me,
beyond the unfailing current carrying me
towards another river, another day, to the same
smell of a cloth for holding trout: ‘Here!'
The same hands, but they're tiny, tightly
grip the black handle of the landing net.
I hear my little spool rewind,
bend patiently over the water,
on a flat rock with trees around,
early evening, silence, mosquitoes,
I see, rising from the river, my
father's broad back, pulling in,
slowly stretching out his arm,
throwing, pulling in again,
wearing a cap and big green boots,
the same boots with which warily
I test the river's bed, the stones,
slippery detritus of the years,
then turn, lift on the line a trout
that flaps relentlessly, and move
upstream, letting the hook lodge, till
I reach, father, the flat rock where
I'm waiting for you, hand-net ready.

Translated by Christopher Whyte