I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread.
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in the stream,
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl,
With apple blossom in her hair,
Who called me by my name and ran,
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering,
Through hollow lads and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands.
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
                                               Yeats

In the mid-1950's my father took me to the mountains of northern New Mexico, and there in a small arroyo, I caught my first 'little silver trout' on a fly. Though I did not realize it then, that trout, like Aengus' trout, became the beautiful and mysterious object of what has been, and what surely will be, a life-long search. I see her every time I go fishing. I feel her presence in every one of her kind that fate and my good fortune bring to the end of my line. I have not caught her yet, but I have come close. I will keep chasing her because the pursuit is an adventure that takes me to exotic places, both far away and close to home; places that bring me contentment and happiness. She has introduced me to many wonderful things, and many times she has provided for me those apples of silver and gold. As well as I know her, she remains a mystery. Now, I hope I never really catch her, but I want to hold her hands.

Harry Briscoe, October, 1999