An Anglers Dream

[Guest Mike Connor]

Hours and days, and weeks and months, and even years, go drifting by,

suddenly one is old, and knows not when or how it happened, or even why.

The hopes and dreams of youth have faded, replaced by practical considerations,

some things are less easy than they were, must be left to younger generations.

 

Wisdom, and some circumspection, have hopefully replaced blind action,

one now looks, before one leaps, unless one wants to land in traction.

Heart and muscles, once untiring, and seemingly eternal in reliance,

warn now and then, that this was only temporary, punish now defiance.

 

Knees and backs, once subject to weights and ways, which would overload an ass,

when asked to do so now, protest oft mightily, and one is forced at last to pass.

The ten foot rod, once fished all day, with heavy flies and lines, in heavy water,

stands mostly unused in the corner now, perhaps to be passed on, to son or daughter.

 

Tiny flies, once fished with confidence, and eyesight, which would have shamed a hawk,

ousted now by flies on larger hooks, thicker lines, which sometimes cause a fish to baulk,

Once perfect vision, coupled well with youthful drive, and perfect hand coordination,

now replaced by skill and long experience, which suffices yet, in nearly every situation.

 

How long though? Should one perhaps sit long and hard, and tie a multitude of flies?

afraid that soon, some things will not be possible, with old and tired and rheumy eyes?

Chest waders, hanging in their rightful place, mostly now unused upon the cellar wall,

aggressive wading is no longer quite the thing to do, it would be dangerous to fall.

 

Many seasons, many fish, blur at last, to strings of often fading, but still happy recollection,

red letter days stand out of course, of special fish, and special flies, from ones collection.

Watching enviously, as some spry youth then springs from rock to rock, or leaps the stream,

things one did without a second thought, but of which one now, can only reminisce or dream.

 

Wasted? Oh I think not, for what would one have, to recall with such enduring pleasure,

had one not fished at all, and had some other thing instead to spend ones leisure?

Perhaps tis true, that youth is wasted on the young, and after all, life often is unfair,

still and all, despite enough regrets, I would not change it, it was beyond compare.

 

Friends, met on various waters through the years, some gone now, some still living,

gentlemen and anglers, great and small, all enriched ones life, were great at giving,

experience, advice, flies and leaders, and a multitude of other things, given with joy,

no thought of selfishness within them, generous and kind, that others might enjoy.

 

Some years yet, I hope I may still fish, grant that God, or providence, fulfil my dreams,

wander still, enchanted lands, through woodlands, mountains, rivers, lakes, and streams.

Meet new friends, tie flies, drink toasts, catch fish, perhaps at last invent the perfect fly?

Sorrows? Yes some, but few of them to do with fishing, I will be happy, when at last I die.

 

Hopefully some anglers will then think as well of me, and so ensure that I am not forgotten,

that I may take my place among the cavalcade of sportsmen, like Walton, Skues or Cotton,

mistake me not, I yearn not for fame or recognition, perchance a thought, perhaps a prayer.

that I may rest in peace, an honest angler, and an honest man, who, to men and fish, was fair.

 

TL

MC