Angling - Poem by Valsa George
Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leapt down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet
Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler
Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream
As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up
But alas! With no booty to boast!
Patiently he sat there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man's pursuit!
Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one's plate
Yet following one's heart's pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!
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