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the ghost in the land

The wind howls and prowls around the yard, looking for anything I've not tied down. It's been blowin' a hooley all night, it's sunrise now and it's not run out of steam yet. Not a day to fish. Not a day to go out even, I'm hunkered down indoors, shack-nasties gnawing at my bones. 


So I'm writing this, straightening out my recollections of fishing trips just passed, editing memories, putting a rosy glow around them. We are all, after all, directors and stars of our own mind-movie sagas. Except sometimes you can't escape the truth. Sometimes you have to tell it exactly like it was. 

My truth is told by twenty bloody cuts, by the half dozen puncture wounds that stung so cruelly when I got back into the river, by the aching black, blue and purple medals of dishonour I still wear without pride, awarded for reckless folly in the field of fishing. I'll not tangle again with barbed wire fences in remote places, and I thank my lucky stars my quick and clever f…

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