One more stroke
of cypress paddle,
that my dad made,
in crystal waters
of a calm lake.
And this old jon boat
glides forward a bit
leaving hardly a ripple behind;
then coasts to a stop.
My nine foot fly rod
of split bamboo
whips gracefully
as a magician's wand
with just a whhiiiiissp
of line through guides.
A minuscule pause
while line straightens out
behind me..
then with a wrist flip
I power the line forward.
It drops with its passenger,
a foam body spider,
exactly where I want
right next to a shallow stump.
where I let it lie...and lie
until all is still..
Then with trees reflecting
off mercurial water
I move the fly the slightest bit
-------
The peace ENDS
as a bass explodes
sending water spraying
as it jumps shaking its head
A short fight
then supper is subdued
and line is checked for frays.
then
One more stroke.............
Comments
How big...
was that fish? Was it thiiisssss big? LoL
I can see me on that lake, paddling that johnny-boat, toward that old log, wondering if there is supper waiting for it's supper.
I know for the sake of keeping the workshop moving, that we have to keep the poems brief, but I would loved to have kept going to the fry-pan and the smell of butter and fish, the taste of it and the relaxing feeling of an ice-cold beer on the back porch. But hey, you got me thinking it, soooo... Nice stuff! ~Geez.
.
Leuciscvs cephalns.
Leuciscvs cephalns.
It bends for thee
sweet, Chevin.
this cane thats
cleaved by three,
wilt thou now
sweet, Chevin.
yield, and bend, for me.
----------------------------
I see your, Bass.
And raise you a, Carp.
Obi.