The day was fine, the good Lady Annalee sang her siren song and I felt compelled to answer. I am but a man and my will is weak, so I bid my adieus and grabbed my kit on my way out the door. The sun shimmered silver on the water and the melodious play of the riffle shushed my mind to calm. Living bars of slithey gold beckoned and teased as they made brazenly for the nymph and turn at the last. Like a French lover, I relish the challenge and try a different approach. The nymph is presented with pinpoint accuracy, it touches the water like an infants kiss and dives immediately down at the insistence of the tungsten bead. She bumps and tumbles over the rocks, enticingly resplendent in her squirrel and peacock boa. Irresistible, the trout takes up the offering. The sacrificial lamb bounces forward screaming 'Strike...Strike'. The hook is set and the game afoot. She runs and dives, hither and thither trying to throw this invisible force that demands a landward sway. Her strength is a dwindling reservoir but she finds enough for one last long, deep run. At last, she succums to the insistent will of the rod and comes to the net exhausted. I wet my hands and reverently pick her up casting my shadow over her to protect her eyes from the glaring sun. gently I remove the offending liar from her lip and ever so gently return her to her home. She turns to the deep and twice, thrice waves her tail and is gone. The willows sway gently in the lazy breeze and the Lady Annalee sings softly her siren song.