Old Men Fishing From A Bridge
I saw old men fishing from a bridge.
Poles secured to the railing,
Five gallon buckets beside them.
Leaning on the railing
Staring at the water.
At the end of the bridge,
parked along the road were trucks
real trucks – Chevys Fords, Dodges,
for this was Maine.
The old men watched; the inflowing tide,
The ruffle of wind on the water,
The eddys of flowing water
The tide’s slow rise.
They listened to the tern’s cries,
the eiders murmurs,
the water’s musical flow,
the wind’s voice.
Fishing is easy, catching a fish is hard,
Learning to fish is even harder.
The fisherman’s hands tell of the lessons
callouses on thumb, scars
from hook or spines
muscles on the wrist and arm
(from casting and reeling)
And his face, red and peeling nose,
squinting eyes,
Weather darkened skin.
But none of these show the fisherman’s
Great lesson.
Patience!
waiting for opening day
the tide to change
the weather to clear
the wind to drop
the temperature to rise or fall.
Then!
The squawking terns!
The swirling flashing water
moves closer!
Within casting distance!
Patience is repaid!
This day, beside the gray haired fisherman
A young boy, a grandson,
jerks his pole and reels,
reels in with young, happy arms.
A mackerel.
To be admired
By seven old men.
The lesson has started.
It’s easy to fish
harder to catch a fish,
harder still to learn how to fish.
Water must be watched,
and birds, and wind, and the weather.
A fisherman must learn time and tide,
must learn from squinting
into the sun or rain.
Must learn there is always tomorrow,
another tide, another bridge,
or next season.
But mostly a boy
Learns of patience.
The patience of old men
Fishing from a bridge.
William R. Hinderer
Peaks Island, Maine
2009
True Blue Island 
Leave a comment