Many years ago, as a little lass of five,

My dad and I went fishing by the brook,

The sun beating down, the pole began    

Growing heavy, with every step I took.

 

Just remembering the water swishing

Over the rocks to the pools beyond,

Brings back some funny memories

Of which I have now become so fond.

 

I’d sit on the bank of that swirling brook,

And impatiently wait until my dad

Would bait my hook, throw out the line

As for several years he always had.

 

No matter how many times he threw

His own line into the brook that day,

I was the only one that caught a fish

It always seemed to happen that way.

 

Now a limit of the size of fish was set

And it seemed that they all were small,

My dad thought of a plan to avoid all that

Looking back, it wasn’t kosher at all.

 

It seems that my overalls had rolled cuffs,

Just right to hide a short trout or two,

And being a child, I had no thought

That I was breaking the law. Who knew??

 

So at the end of the day, tired and sweaty

We’d cross the old brook once again,

I’d carry a flower picked ‘specially for mom

Would jump from rock to rock…and then!

 

Each time I’d go to that old fishing hole

It never failed…I’d take that dreaded fall,

Before my dad could shout out to me

I’d end up in the brook, flower and all.

 

But those were the days when families

Spent Sundays together, having fun,

I’d not change a thing about the times

My dad and I went fishing under the sun.

 

~Twilah~
(2001)