On my profile is a picture
Of a place I used to go fishing
I would sit there for hours
Staring at the brightly painted tip
of my carefully balanced float
Watching for tell-tale signs
Of greedy little fishes
Which were caught and returned
Without much harm to them

This place was a wide part
Of the local stretch of canal
There so barges could turn 'round
And, obviously, known as the wide
Other than in the minds of kids
Who called it "Dead Man's Cove"
Although, in living memory
No-one had died there at all

Many pleasant hours I spent there
Sometimes chatting to other anglers
Or the occasional passers-by
Some would be walking their dogs
And some just stretching their legs
"Having any luck, mate?" they'd ask
"Not bad," I'd reply with a smile
And, do you know, I never noticed
The beauty that was there all the while

                                                     By Phil Roberts