Anyone who knew P well was convinced he was good at fishing. Often when he was away from work, there was a note stuck on the door of his office which said “Gone fishing….” But…
Many a time P had gone fishing
And come home without any catch;
To bait the hook, he kept forgetting;
The fish were sharper, more than his match!
All he ever caught was once when he pulled in the reel,
Out came a soggy shoe hanging by its lace!
Another time a tug from something live he could feel,
Was a puffer fish, P let him go when it pouted up its face.
Yet P never thought of giving up the fine sport of fishing;
He loved to sit with legs dangling down the side of the pier;
With homing birds in the crimson sky, the sun slowly setting,
His reel idling in the rippling waters, the breeze caressing his hair.
Something seemed to soothe him then:
His catch didn’t matter, nor the past or the future;
It was like meditation or serene and calming Zen
As he blended in blissfully with Mother Nature…