As softly as the lifting of the morning mist
The line lay down on the mountain stream.
If floated like the quiet peace of old age,
And the angler knew he had lived his dream.
Although the clouds of death hung closer now,
There were no regrets for what might have been,
For he had crossed life's darkest flows,
And found firm footing for the soul within.
Easy winds of time rustled leaves of memory
Back to bright windless cold-water days
When the angler and the river were wilder,
And flies were tied without vision's haze.
The cascading sunlit depths of time
Had given him these days a'stream
To stand against life's uncertain tide
And cast his hopes to a distant dream.
But today he saw the Coachman drifting free
On a current made of glass,
And he somehow knew the fist was there
To accept the offered pass.
He saw the take and knew again the thrill of life
So often felt in days gone by,
As the trout ran deep like time itself,
Which takes us all to the day we die.
The old rod bent with seasoned strength,
Lending dignity to defeat,
As the net of grace dipped low to hold
The joy of a life complete.
And while the trout found tranquil rest
Because of sweet release,
The old man smiled to go from here
To the promised timeless peace.
M. Gibbs
