Down by the river on a bank of mud,
a trail of footprints where I stood.
Not fox, not dog - these toes were webbed,
into reeds was where they led.
With eyes bright, all senses keen
the otter now is rarely seen.
At dusk a glimpse is sometimes caught,
but it’s early morning when best sought.
Long and sleek in a dark brown coat,
a splash of white about the throat,
in search of fish on which to feed,
bouncing off currents and gliding through weed.
Under water the chase begins -
a game of stealth and necessity wins.
Twisting and turning between rocks and tree stumps,
fleeing and frightened, high the trout jumps.
A favourite meal is the slippery eel -
hard to keep hold of, but worth the ordeal.
A shining salmon is the ultimate prize,
its speed, its strength, its frightening size.
A battle won against this leader of fish
is the answer to an otter’s wish
