While walking along the river bank one sunny afternoon,
Nonchalantly humming a ditty; a jolly little tune.
Who should I spy with my little eye,
Sat on the bank with Bob by his side.
Why that funny old guy, by the name of Ole McFly.

Good day Sir said I, quietly not wishing to impose,
As Bob bound over I gently stroked his nose.
Grand day for fishing, what you hope to catch?
Startled then at once was I by his cat,
Who I’d not noticed curled upon his lap.

The old guy looked up and with a sigh,
Brushing a weathered hand across his eye.
Tis a salmon I be after; but he be sly,
Evades me, no matter ow’s hard I tries.
Haps I best bait another fly.

Quietly I lowered myself to the ground,
Mindfully, not wishing to make a sound.
Content was I to watch and stare,
As the brightly coloured fly trace through the air.
I lay back blissfully without a care.

Waking with a start by the rubble of a cart,
In the distance I squint to see.
My dear friend leaving me.
Where are you off to Ole McFly?
No reply, from that funny old guy.

Breda Ware