Pike

After yesterday's gloom and rain, today was a perfect late September day, with that glorious golden light characteristic of the equinox. Pete and I spent most of the day out in the Lincolnshire fens, assisiting with surveys of a couple of drains. The first was very rich in aquatic species, with such rarities as water violet Hottonia palustris and river water-dropwort Oenanthe fluviatilis in abundance. The water was crystal clear and we hardly needed to ues our grapnel to identify the waving waterweeds.

While Jeremy and I surveyed the flora, Pete was down at the water's edge surveying the water beetles and other aquatic invertebrates. Amazingly he caught a small, but perfectly formed, pike in his net and placed it into a tray for us to see. I took a few very quick photographs, as I didn't want it to be out of the water for too long, even though pike are fairly resilient. This was my favourite shot - a close up of the head which shows many of the adaptions of this perfect predator: the camouflaged body, the streamlined shape, the enormous eyes and those sharp teeth.

Seeing this wonderful creature, which was quickly returned to the water and swam off quite unperturbed, brought to mind the poem 'Pike' by Ted Hughes. I vividly remember first coming across this poem at school, when I was about fourteen. As a budding naturalist it really resonated with me, and was one of the first occasions when I could appreciate the true marriage of science and literature.

Pike, three inches long, perfect
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.

Or move, stunned by their own grandeur,
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.

In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads-
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year's black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds

The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs
Not to be changed at this date:
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.

Three we kept behind glass,
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: red fry to them-
Suddenly there were two. Finally one

With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long
High and dry and dead in the willow-herb-

One jammed past its gills down the other's gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks-
The same iron in this eye
Though its film shrank in death.

A pond I fished, fifty yards across,
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them-

Stilled legendary depth:
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast

But silently cast and fished
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,

Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night's darkness had freed,
That rose slowly toward me, watching.

While we were out I received a text from Alex saying that a couple of old friends wanted to drop by later this afternoon. So within about five minutes of arriving home we had visitors - thankfully Alex had hoovered up the worst of the fluff in the hall while we were out! By the time they left just after seven I felt fairly shattered and it didn't take much persuasion from the boys to order a Chinese meal, which was thoroughly enjoyed and made a lovely end to the week.