The First of May – A Poem by Arnold J. Copeland
My trusty rod I cherish so,
Is ready for the fray,
All polished up from tip to butt
To greet the opening day.
The boots are not just what they were,
Perhaps, not what they seem;
But patches help to navigate
A few more miles of stream.
The dainty, gaudy, little flies
Once more have seen the light;
For half the fun of fishing
Is to see which one they’ll bite,
Or to argue with the other chap
Who thinks he has the dope;
Yet most the anglers that I know
Just put one on and hope.
I’m hankering for the tang of pines,
For crooked trails that lead
Into the forest’s tranquil heart
Where springs the rivers feed,
Clear, sparkling, crystal rivers
Forever on their way.
Man, they just take my troubles
And bear them all away.
As long as I can cast a fly
And watch it swiftly glide
O’er ripples, murmuring a song,
Where speckled beauties hide,
As long as pine and balsam shed
Their fragrance for mankind,
I shall find real joy in fishing,
And leave all care behind.
Arnold J. Copeland