The Flick Of The Wrist Poem by David Wood

Dark uninviting still waters
Over crowded with rainbows
Taking their chances

Their lot is not a happy lot
For they hunger for nymphs
And other insect larvae

Lakeside trees have seen it all
Before their shadows useful to
Hide under, the leaves offer hope

The skill is in the flick of the wrist
Where hungry hours may slowly
Drip drip by without any advice

Dinner is still silently waiting
Hiding in dark places, biding its time
Unaware of its fate