The Friday Clock Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The week drags on, the papers pile,
But on my lips, a hidden smile.
For Friday comes, the clock strikes four,
And I escape through the office door.

The rods are packed, the gear is set,
A tackle box, a waiting net.
No buzzing phone can hold me bound,
As I drive toward that rushing sound.

The morning mist begins to rise,
A real-world stream before my eyes.
The dream of trout and
ruby char,
Is no longer something chased from afar.

The water roars, the line is cast,
The weekend's freedom here at last.
No sudden rings, no worries tall, Just nature's pure, rewarding call.