You won’t see him wading anymore,
he stopped doing that a while ago.
He was getting a bit unsteady for
surprises
on the bottom of an ever changing riverscape.
I have never stepped into a
stream
without thinking of him; sometimes I even
think I smell his favorite pipe blend when
the evening stillness comes to the North Branch.
I can hear the soft cut of his line pass
through the prescient air and know it will land
exactly where he intended.
He was a poet, you know.
His were not words placed exactly where
they should be, but colors and sometimes, dry flies,
or perfectly selected spices and seasonings.
He shined most at inviting new friends into his delightful
world
of conversation, hearty meals, a fine cigar
and a glass of wine.
He loved the precision of art
and the randomness of humanity
with equal fervor.
He loved the people he shared time and wine with
not the time and the wine.
He acted more the steward of his possessions than their
owner.
He measured value in the friends he shared them with.
And now, as always, he goes ahead, to check
the larder for the morning meal of
And now, as always, he goes ahead, to check
the larder for the morning meal of
Slab cut bacon, fried potatoes,
toast from Ruth’s home made bread
and her freezer strawberry jam,
eggs basted in bacon drippings
and strong coffee.
All the while whining vehemently
about never winning at cards.
toast from Ruth’s home made bread
and her freezer strawberry jam,
eggs basted in bacon drippings
and strong coffee.
All the while whining vehemently
about never winning at cards.
There was the beginning
to a perfect day
of fishing
with Bill
to a perfect day
of fishing
with Bill
©Herb Ratliff - March 1, 2013
What a wonderful tribute to a fantastic friend. Very nicely written, Herb.
ReplyDeleteI haven't read such such gentle words from a writer and flyfisherman since Rober Traver wrote them.... Very nice. :)
ReplyDelete