Fishing, Not Catching

First published in Riverbed Review, Issue 2 Vol 1, 2021

My father taught me to savour every

day we spent on the lake with nothing

to show for it come sundown. We reeled

in whiting and flathead too pathetic to haul 

home for tea, hoping one weekend to catch

dinner for the family. Dad refused to lose

the plot over our rotten luck, never

drank himself stupid like Grandad used

to do decades before. Dad told me that’s why

he never gave drinking a go. He wasn’t crazy

about fishing either but could stomach

it for me. The stench of rotting prawns clung

to him for life. I’m glad he didn’t lose his head

for my sake. I know he wasn’t so lucky

at my age. Even on our worst days he’d still care

enough to crack a smile at our failed efforts

As he drove us home at dusk, he’d often say

Don’t worry, mate. It’s fishing, not catching.