They say fly fishing's been 'round
since the Macedonians; red wool,
two feathers from under a cock's wattles,
six feet each of rod and line - and there it is:
Grandma said angling's in Grandpa's blood;
once, while napping, I saw his fingers working
as if tying on flies; he awoke in the best of moods.
Weekends often found us amongst hill country's
gently moving streams, numerous lakes,
he explaining (for hundredth time)
how to read water, knots, flies, casting tips.
Remember how he ceremoniously handed me
well worn rod and reel,
adjusted float line, backing, leader.
Allowed me to choose (probably the wrong one,
but certainly the prettiest) my favorite of his feathery flies
and with sun and plenty of grass behind my back,
I cast. Cast again, and again...
Grandpa was proud, pointed out to many passerby's
his granddaughter's natural ability. I wasn't so sure,
glad the day's success wasn't rated with ice box bounty
but with laughter and sharing of ancient ways.
Standing upon the banks today
I find myself listening for him as I cast,
sure he's singing my praises to the angels about him,
the twinkle of his eye upon me.
by Margaret Bednar, September 6, 2018
This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform" WAY late joining, but I will swing around and visit this challenge in the morning and comment then.