Here is another fine poem from Woodland Valley's poet laureate Mike O'Neil aka Boreegard.
Trout for Helen and Phil
Helen’s late husband Fred simply whistled it seemed,
And lithe browns and silvering rainbows leapt into his wicker creel.
He knew the brook better than most men know their way home.
He saw his swift upstream fly as a trout would,
And so caught many.
Phil’s clan did not angle for trout, they went down to the brook
And tickled them. Stroking their flanks and bellies softly, softly,
They gulled the fish--hypnotized them,
Heaved them up onto the bank, dispatched them quickly,
And carried them home for dinner in a burlap sack.
Sometimes when I catch a few extra, I deliver trout to one or the other,
Or both of them. There are few appetites to match Phil’s or Helen’s
Liking for this fresh-caught prize. I imagine it is not just the subtle taste
Of the flesh they savor, but the delicious memories and rare evocation
Of youth that each bite brings. There is no finer meal.
Boreegard
