Fishing With Old Mates - The Passing Parade
Posted: Sat Aug 09, 2014 10:57 am
The Trout fishing season opens on September 1 over here.
A group of (OLD) mates will get together for the opening and as usual have a barbecue and a few drinks the night before.
My knees are still wonky so a mate and I will set up a couple of chairs near the water’s edge at Harvey dam and wait for the odd trout to hopefully cruise past.
FISHING WITH OLD MATES - THE PASSING PARADE
It’s down the path of memory he wanders one more time,
along a bubbling mountain stream when he was in his prime.
And ghostly flymen walk with him as he goes strolling on,
they’ve come to share this sunny day and hear the rivers song.
They whisper of big fish they’ve seen and ones that got away,
but only he can hear their words and knows just what they say.
And as he slowly moves along there is no tramp of feet,
yet they are all around him on this river where they meet.
He takes a seat upon a log to watch the flowing creek,
the trout are rising further on for insects that they seek.
He’s happy just to watch them for the urge has gone somehow
and there’ll be other days to fish; but mates are with him now.
The scene’s intoxicating with the pleasure that it brings;
the trickle of the nearby stream; the buzz of insect wings.
The sound of rushing water seems like music to his soul,
with nature all around him here wherever he may stroll.
He thinks about the fishermen, who’d fished this stream with skill,
old blokes who knew the way of trout; their image lingers still.
The apparitions melt away as day is almost done,
they fade into the distance disappearing one by one.
He stirs at last the daydream ends, the magic is no more,
the ghostly fishers have returned to whence they were before.
He looks out at the garden where he whiles his hours away
and tries to visualize the stream he’ll fish again one day.
© T.E. Piggott
A group of (OLD) mates will get together for the opening and as usual have a barbecue and a few drinks the night before.
My knees are still wonky so a mate and I will set up a couple of chairs near the water’s edge at Harvey dam and wait for the odd trout to hopefully cruise past.
FISHING WITH OLD MATES - THE PASSING PARADE
It’s down the path of memory he wanders one more time,
along a bubbling mountain stream when he was in his prime.
And ghostly flymen walk with him as he goes strolling on,
they’ve come to share this sunny day and hear the rivers song.
They whisper of big fish they’ve seen and ones that got away,
but only he can hear their words and knows just what they say.
And as he slowly moves along there is no tramp of feet,
yet they are all around him on this river where they meet.
He takes a seat upon a log to watch the flowing creek,
the trout are rising further on for insects that they seek.
He’s happy just to watch them for the urge has gone somehow
and there’ll be other days to fish; but mates are with him now.
The scene’s intoxicating with the pleasure that it brings;
the trickle of the nearby stream; the buzz of insect wings.
The sound of rushing water seems like music to his soul,
with nature all around him here wherever he may stroll.
He thinks about the fishermen, who’d fished this stream with skill,
old blokes who knew the way of trout; their image lingers still.
The apparitions melt away as day is almost done,
they fade into the distance disappearing one by one.
He stirs at last the daydream ends, the magic is no more,
the ghostly fishers have returned to whence they were before.
He looks out at the garden where he whiles his hours away
and tries to visualize the stream he’ll fish again one day.
© T.E. Piggott
