Bernard Franklin

Rookie (14 Aug- 1958 / Bath, Somerset)

The Fisherman - Poem by Bernard Franklin

At the crack of dawn the man gets up,
his fishing kit prepared.
He likes to sort his rods and reels,
so that his tackle isn’t snared.

Then it’s off down to the river,
to see what he can catch.
Against twenty other anglers,
he starts the fishing match.

He knows there’s bream and tench in here,
it’s just a case of where.
There might even be a pike or two,
hidden deep within their lair.

He casts his floats and maggots in,
just hoping for a bite.
But when his rod leaps off the river bank,
he knows he’s got a fight! .

He grabs the rod in the nick of time,
and pulls back to form a strike.
But there’s something solid under there,
it’s thirty pounds of pike! .

He fights the fish with all his might,
for half an hour or more.
He reels it in then lets it out,
his hands are getting sore.

The fish goes up and down the river,
like some crazy tennis match.
The fisherman knows he’ll win the prize,
if he can only land this catch.

When he thought the fight was over,
the pike gave one last lunge.
So what he reeled in was a two ounce eel,
all covered in slimy gunge.

Just one small tiddler in his net.
after fishing here all day.
The one he caught was nothing like,
the one that got away! .

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, August 12, 2010

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