The rivers still rush
through my mind
as one violent force:
Mira; Margoree; Miramichi;
St. Mary's; Mersey-

When the days became short and cold
And September's rain made the rivers rise
The Salmon began their Fall run.

Before sunrise my mother crept
Into my room, shook my shoulders
and whispered-
"Get ready".

My father marched us
with our gear
and tackle through marshy fields;
whipping branches and thorns,
sliding down muddy banks so steep
I clung to a rope hung from a tree-
my hands burned as raw
as if I'd grabbed a boiling pot.

"This is my river",
He explains,
Casting his line into the distance
                Like a ringmasters whip.
"Casting is all in the wrist",
I fill the space beside and
Behind him,
trying to keep my feet 
under Me.
I try
Casting with too much line
and too little wrist.

"It's  like this",
He says, as the line cracks
Straight back-
               Straight ahead.

Patterned like a prawn,
The fine feathers from
his hand-crafted Fly:
Hot Orange Seal's Fur;
Crystal Flash;
Golden Pheasant;
Shimmer near the opposite shore.

I could never tell him my
Wrist was sore,
Or my legs cold and aching
From the constant pressure.

With a splash,
His rod bends sharply.
The line howls, and with a quick
Jerk, he sets the hook.
The small fish is no match for him
But admiring its Potential
He sets it free.
"Maybe next time he'll be stronger"
he said,
Looking back at me.