Another good man has gone
to his good grave, his dim days
dim now no more. Below the blue sky
the green bush trims the stream
while the water shushes over
the old dam. In the cool shadows
fat speckled trout glide to and fro
and hide from us just beneath the foam.
We do not fish, not here, not anymore,
that world is long gone and so nearly
too are we. But he is still there,
of this I am sure, waiting and smiling
and fishing evermore, he is there—
I am sure.
This poem is dedicated to Mark Higgins, my father’s dearest friend who died in April, 2007; he was 81 years old.
When I was growing up Mark was very much an uncle to me and I loved him very much. He was a quiet, sweet, gentle man, a logger by trade who was happiest in the…
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