I wrote this poem for a
freind that, lost someone
they dearly loved that was an
avid fly fisherman.
Art by: Peter Corbin
Brooks Never Traveled
By SunRae ©1999
Look dearest father is it spring?
I swear I hear a Robin sing.
The streams are bubbling high,
and the trout are gathered nigh.
The season is never closed
where I happily now roam.
My heavenly father has called
this fly fisherman home.
The streams and brooks,
I have traveled in stride,
the colorful flys, I have tied,
all left now, for friends with pride.
When next your feet travel
a mossy green brook,
you let your line fly, feel joy
when you set your hook.
Look up into a clear blue sky.
you'll see this fly-fisherman
wink his eye.
The legacy I leave behind
the message for mankind.
Walk softly, tread lightly, leave
mother earth as you found her.
return the small ones that you find,
and above all, remember to be kind.
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