Today I came across the flies he tied.
Neatly arranged in their small silver case,
Like medals on a general's chest.
Each one a specialty for catching,
A particular fish.
His thick hands seemed too wide,
For such a delicate operation.
I remember watching quietly
As he transformed
One gold hook,
A bobbin of black thread,
Feathers from a grouse
Into a meal fit for a fish.
Carefully, he packed his gear
As we six piled into his baby blue station wagon.
He set each child with worm and rod,
Then softly with waders on
Stepped into the water, barely a ripple
Casting his newly minted fly.
Only to be called back,
By one or two of us
With tangled line, no fish.
Tenderly unwound the line
And replaced the worm
Watching as we skipped rocks.
Our interest in fish waned without a nibble.
Never minding distractions we created.
Thinking time would come for soothing days
Casting in still streams, but
Time, the one that got away.
Cindy Lens was born and raised in the Worcester area, and currently lives in New Hampshire with her husband, her son, and her chocolate lab. She earned a BA in English from University of New Hampshire.
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