Fishing Poem

I wrote another poem for my creative writing class and I thought I would share it with you. The writing prompt was a photograph of a man, alone on a big rock that overlooked a large body of water that I thought looked like the ocean.

This is obviously not the picture that inspired the poem, but close enough, right?

A swing of the arm,

The flick of a wrist.

The hushed “whoosh” of the rod,

As it cuts through the air.

I'm getting better at this.

Slowly but surely, I'm learning.

I haven't caught anything yet,

So I wait patiently as he always did.

The waves are crashing against the shore,

Along the rocky pedestal on which I stand.

My feet are wet, my hands tired.

I'm getting weary of waiting.

The moment I give up,

The second I start reeling in,

Something tugs violently at the end

Of my line, something hidden.

Whip the rod upwards,

Just like he taught me;

Secure the hook, he'd say.

And I start a battle of tug-o-war.

This is when it gets exciting,

Playing tug-o-war with an invisible force,

Not knowing what's on the other end.

It's what he loved about it.

Finally, I see something.

A flash of a golden fin.

A smile tugs at my lips;

I did it.

Why he always loved to fish

Remains a mystery to me.

My dad never taught me,

I never taught my son.

He loved it so much.

And so here I am,

Catching my first fish at 62,

Just the way he taught me.