Fishin' With Dad

Sometimes after supper

When a burst of sun was still out shining;

My Dad and I would go fishing

In a place far from confining;

Just right behind our rancher home,

Down this narrow gravel lane,

Was where a small, private pond sat,

And some fish we would obtain.

Using garden worms for bait,

With our reels and ultra light’s,

The fish congregating in the shallows

Would always give us bites.

Bluegills, sunnies, and large mouth

Were the kinds we’d always catch;

And you could certainly guarantee,

That we’d come home with quite a batch?

Before heading back up to the house,

I’d hop-up off the tackle box.

To go stroll down along the spongy bank

And find a couple of real flat rocks.

Across the unruffled water I’d wing 'em . . .

And then count the umpteen skips.

Pretty soon, dad would join in with me,

And show me some throwing tips.

Those fishin' days when I was a youngster,

Are long gone with the wind.

And there’s not a thing I would not render,

Just to have them back again.

~Andy Harley

from

Till The Dreaming’s Done: “Poems Crafted For Thinking People” (ISBN 1-4137-8232-9)