“The Old Fishin’ Hole”

Photo by Angela Mapes Turner

In dreams I stray
To a bygone day,
To the banks of the old fishin’ hole
Where fishin’ was joy
To a barefoot boy
With a dog and a willow pole.

A pathway was worn
Through clover and corn
To the banks of that shady old crick;
Where I, like a fool,
Played hooky from school
Pretendin’ that I was sick.

Seemed like…most every night,
Just when bullheads would bite,
I would tangle my line in the trees.
How could I know,
In those days long ago
I was fishin’ for memories?

It’s a thrill just to dream
Of that muddy old stream
That flowed ’neath a tall sycamore.
Oh! how memories roll
To that old fishin’ hole
Back in those days of yore.

It was wonderful there
In the hay-scented air,
Shaded from bright summer sun;
Where the big ones didn’t wait
To grab at my bait,
Where fishin was always fun.

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