As I crossed the soft green meadow there ...
I remembered fishing there as a child.
Taken, by my dad and mother ~ I declare ...
Seems the fish were quick and wild.
I'd toss my line ~ made of cane I'd found
And little fish would catch ~ wiggling to and fro.
Sometimes I'd drop one upon the ground ...
And, often, back into the creek I'd throw.
The well worn path has now grown over ...
In the meadow leading there.
Beautiful green ~ with sweet red clover ...
Silver trout ~ swimming very near.
Maybe I'll walk again, over the meadow ...
Watch the sheep and kine, as they graze.
Little baby calves and lambs ~who would grow,
Almost put my mind in a daze.
Crows following the herd ...
Looking for food that they might eat.
Watching, silently the little birds ...
Scratching for fat worms with little feet.
Maybe, I'll come again another year ...
Think of family, who has gone on,
Who taught me to fish; they were so dear.
Now, to Heaven, they've gone, on home.
'Twas a fine old home place, back then ...
Room alike, for all beast, and man.
Sometimes, we would invite all the kin.
They would spend the night, and bedtime limits, ban.
I'll try to go back again one day ...
When the meadows are a brilliant green.
Maybe I'll fish for silver trout, and stay ...
At the most beautiful place, I've ever seen. |
