this is one i wrote in memory of my father a few years back now ,god rest his soul, to remember him from my early days of coarse angling for teaching me about angling ,i hope you enjoy it .............

I started when i was four
going out with dad through the door
go to the shed and get the bike
and off we would go on our little hike

off we go to the Yorkshire Ouse
early morning the sky full of blues
watching dad catch all those fish
i think i would like to do that what a wish

my next trip to a little pond not a river
the thought of it had me all of a quiver
to use cotton worm and sticks to catch newts
the great crested ones they were beaut,s

we now go to the age of six
left behind the cotton worms and sticks
dad bought me a centre pin dont know what make
but with open arms and a hug the reel i did take

a split cane rod and trusty pin
we go to the river my face all of a grin
for bait some bread and some cheese paste
i thought im hungry what a waste

we get to our swim and make a cast
will we have enough bait will it last
of the bait all i could think of was grub
then a rap on the rod a strike my first chub

at first the fish i didn't know
my experience was good but slow
dad tells me son that's your first chub
my reply can we take it home dad for some grub

we jump now quite a while
along with my experience and guile
my age now its nearly twenty
always looking to catch fish a plenty

i go to matches here and there
fishing for the roach on hemp and tare
carting all that match gear everywhere
end up being a tackle tart wallet always bare

all excited at buying a new pole
the very same day my dad dies god rest his soul
he was looking forward to using "that roach thing"
my old man he was a character always fishing and going poaching

as his death passes time it heals
looking forward now to getting some new wheels
there's nothing like getting a new car
the one that's going to take me wide and far

from my twenties to my thirties
my attention goes to bearded berties
my first double it came from the Ure
on a beef and liver bait i did lure

years have come and years have past
you always remember the first and not the last
the first its always set in your mind
gone are the days when you used to fish blind

now to this coming season
in memory of my dad to go fishing i need no reason
the thought of it like the old days has me all a quiver
for dad this year i hope for a double from every Yorkshire river.


thanks for looking,

Bruce.

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WHEN YOU LEAVE THE RIVER, TAKE NOTHING, AND LEAVE ONLY FOOTPRINT'S!!!

THA CAN TELL A YORKSHIREMAN ,BUT THA CAN'T TELL HIM MUCH !!

Bruce
I don't normally like poems but that was very moving and thank you for putting it up

thanks bt,much appreciated , and to be honest im not keen on poetry ,it was just something that i seemed i needed to do

__________________
WHEN YOU LEAVE THE RIVER, TAKE NOTHING, AND LEAVE ONLY FOOTPRINT'S!!!

THA CAN TELL A YORKSHIREMAN ,BUT THA CAN'T TELL HIM MUCH !!

I'D RATHER BE FISHING


I'd rather be fishing, Than talking to you,
At least when I'm fishing, I know what to do.
I'd rather hold a rainbow in my hand,
Than get hit on the head, with a frying pan.

I'd rather be fishing, than look at your face,
At least the fish don't get on my case.
I'd rather get in a fight, with a drunk in a bar,
Than put up with your daily naggin by far.

I'd rather be fishing, any old day,
Than stay home with you, and play.
I'd rather untangle a backlashed line,
Than spend an evening with you, sipping wine.

Do I love fishing, or do I love you?
I know it's gotta be one of the two.
To know the answer is what I'm wishing,
Maybe I'll think of it, while I'm fishing.

I love my wife really!!!

BK

There was an old man from Peru
Who decided to build a canoe
When fishing the river
He found with a shiver
He didnt use waterproof glue.

__________________

One fish, one fly, one man, several hats.
激しいセックス

Give me a rod of split bamboo,
a rainy day and a fly or two,
a mountain stream where the eddies play,
and mists hang low o'er the winding way,

Give me a haunt by the furling brook,
A hidden spot in a mossy nook,
No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,
or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.

The world may roll with it's busy throng,
And phantom scenes on it's way along,
It's stocks may rise, or it's stocks may fall,
Ah! What care I for it's baubles all?

I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill,
Luring the beauties by magic skill,
With mind at rest and a heart at ease,
And drink delight at the balmy breeze.

A lusty trout to my glad surprise,
Speckled and bright on the crest arise,
Then splash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,
Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.

Gracefully swinging from left to right,
Action so gentle- motion so slight,.
Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,
Till yielding tip by the game is bent

Drawing in slowly, then letting go
Under the ripples where mosses grow
Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,
Blessing the land of forest and stream.

All great lads, well done.
S.

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"A glint of sun has warmed the air,The flies will soon hatch out, To lure and tempt from their deep lair, The bonnie speckled trout." SKB tackle supporter. I love Furled Leaders.

I decided to fish with Bruce one day,
He's only a little un, so they say,
Well we had a good time,
And we caught a few trout,
But when I turned round, he wasn't about.

I looked here and there,
I checked all about,
Guess where he was?
He was under the trout.!!!
S.

__________________
"A glint of sun has warmed the air,The flies will soon hatch out, To lure and tempt from their deep lair, The bonnie speckled trout." SKB tackle supporter. I love Furled Leaders.

Oi zimmerman

__________________
WHEN YOU LEAVE THE RIVER, TAKE NOTHING, AND LEAVE ONLY FOOTPRINT'S!!!

THA CAN TELL A YORKSHIREMAN ,BUT THA CAN'T TELL HIM MUCH !!

When I stand on a riverbank, not as an angler, I am enchanted.

Enchanted by the flow of the water, and the reflections of clouds.

Enchanted by the bank-side vegetation, and the nodding flowers.

By the birdlife as it clacks and quacks, peeps and sings, and flashes by in iridescent feathers.

And by the smells of crushed river mint, and water parsley and fragrant flowers.

Yet, not as an angler, I am soon bored, and turn away, not knowing what else there is to see.

A fleeting few moments that refresh the soul.



But when I come to the water as an angler, I come not to see, though see I do, but to engage the water as a creature of the river, and to learn, and to play a part.

As a mock predator, my senses are sharpened and my observation made far keener than any casual onlooker.

I see beneath the surface, just a little with my eyes, more so, much more so, with my mind.

Building a picture of that unseen land from small clues of swirling water and growing weed, and from the knowledge that I have learned of the habits of the creatures there.

Not for a few moments, or for many minutes, but for hours on end, I will delight in what nature has to reveal.

Even when fingers burn cold, or cold wind driven rain whips against my face, I will stay and see and listen and enjoy.

‘You don’t have to be an angler to enjoy going to the river’, they say.

And by saying that betray a lack of understanding, not only of an anglers’ passion, but of what is missing from their lives.

As they miss the sound of a gnawing vole, the sight of a chub rising to a struggling fly, the companionship of a robber robin, and a sunburst through an evening mist.

Because they paused, and then passed by.

And having missed all of this, I could never explain to them the thrill of a dipping float, nor holding in my hands a piece of gold alive, and watching it return with a casual grace back to that half mysterious place below where their vision ceases, and an angler’s vision goes.

Leon Roskilly