The 29th of May, the Feast of the Ascension in the Anglican calendar
is the fortieth day after Easter
And around the end of this month occurs a most important day in the Angling calendar; the trout’s annual Feaster
At this time, in the stream, appear the first mayfly nymphs of the year
As one by one, they swim to the surface from their weedy and watery lair.
After lurking at the bottom for two years in this way
They suddenly realise the full meaning of their existence; a once in a lifetime day
They swim strongly to the surface, with but the single thought
‘Shall we see what the seven hundredth day has brought?’
Their simple task, after a quick change of apparel on the surface,
Is to fulfil, in this new world so strange, their ultimate and irrevocable purpose
From nymph to dun, they embark, in the sun, and the events of just two full days of fun
While not knowing, as did the great poet, John Donne, that they would be unDonne
They fly to a resting place and spread their new wings
This type of fly, has two pairs of these beautiful things
You can see right through them, these wonders of nature
In truth, each mayfly is a miraculous creature
The male, happy and proud, unthinking of his impending afterlife
The other, a Niobe, soon to have briefly a husband and be a wife
Has little chance to rue the instability of her short terrestrial life
Perhaps in a way they are lucky to be spared the problems with which this divided world is rife
But then quickly as if knowing they have only brief time
For which there is no reason, and little good rhyme
In their new finery they embrace the warm sun
And cast their eyes around them, each one
Then, males in a cloud commune together as men tend to do
And talk of ephemera they have known, and chat of this and that
If there had been fat, on it they would chew
They’ll all have their stories, mostly of evading the fish, off pat
There is a cloud of them, drinking in their new surroundings, in the airborne men-only bar
In the bright May sunshine, there is nothing, they think that their joy can mar
It is now that the females, predestined from their nymphal state
Fly up to meet them, to find their mate
They all do what they are born to do and exhausted fall back on the water
While laying their eggs on the surface they can incur an almighty slaughter
Males and females die or are eaten by fish
Their size makes them a somewhat tasty dish
But the eggs sink down to the bottom. to begin their time
In the throes of Rupert Brooke’s ‘Slimier slime’
And every year the mayfly nymphs rise again
Just like the bubbles in Hampshire champagne
Just as, millennia ago; one lived, then died and rose again
A river’s white noise, and that of the trees, is always changing
They both always refreshed my soul, I can proclaim
In this troubled world the noise may change
But the story of the countryside and of the mayfly
Is always the same
