They sit
on the riverbank
on rickety stool
or upturned buckets
elbows resting on knees
hand on rod or simple reel
they sit, they wait
they contemplate
and cogitate
hats on heads
with scrapes and muck and holes
old sandshoes
that have long forgotten
the words white and tennis
shorts or trousers
that sit comfortbably on the hips
and old threadbare shirts
they sit, they stare
into the bright river wake
they take breathes of air
they of the ambience intake
about them is a calm
a stillness, a balm
and tho flys hover
and create bother
there is grace
as they swat
and bat them off
their face
even when they hook
a catch, there is a rhythm
to the fight, of reel and splash
as the duel, to bring the hunted
to heel, be it snagged boot
or that night's meal
they sit, they stand
rod and reel in hand
and thake a punt
on the aquarian hunt
with net and esky
and can of bait
they sit, they wait
and the world
revolves slowly
to them, there is
something sacred
something holy
about the time spent
on the riverbank
catching fish
catching up to oneself
time given to repent
relinquish, replenish
to reinvent, a soul
they sit, they wait
they contemplate
they consecrate
simple things to holy
these old men who fish
on the riverbanks
an ol man river
watches and gently
smiles