“Fle and the Fishing Fiasco”
On a mossy green bank where the daffodils grow,
Sat Alice and Fle with their toes all aglow.
Their lines dipped down in a wiggly stream,
In pursuit of a trout or a daydreamy dream.
Old Fle had a beard that was longer than sense,
He used it to dry off the fish from the fence.
(Yes, there was a fence, in the river somehow—
A trout swam through and said, “Do mind the cow.”)
“Now patience,” said Fle, “is the fisher’s true friend—”
Then his hook snatched his hat and flung it round the bend.
Alice just giggled and pointed with glee,
As a soggy old boot clung fast to poor Fle.
“Have you caught anything?” Alice asked with delight.
“Just a cold,” muttered Fle, “and a ticklish bite.”
He reeled in a sock, then a spoon, then a snail,
Then a rather surprised and still-reading quail.
“Perhaps,” said young Alice, “we should try further down?”
But Fle shook his head and adjusted his frown.
“I once caught a mermaid right here in this brook—
Though she tricked me and swapped all my coins for a book.”
Then something enormous gave both lines a tug!
A fish? A frog? A submerged garden rug?
The rods flew high in a loop-de-loop arc—
And landed them both in the mud with a SPARK!
Covered in slime and some algae and twigs,
Alice declared, “That’s enough chasing pigs!”
But Fle just grinned, with a glint in his eye,
“Fishing,” he said, “isn’t really to try.”
“It’s for thinking, and sitting, and listening to bees,
And falling in rivers and scraping your knees.
And if you’re quite lucky, you might catch a trout—
But mostly you’re lucky just getting back out!”
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 