I can see the big smallie hanging
around the old ballast stones
from the schooner Eden
that came ashore In the big blow
of november1918.
when I was a boy you could still see most
of the planking,
when Marie and I had our first there was
little left but the three ribs when she died
In eighty-five there t’weren’t much left.
Then the boys discovered the bass amid the stones
and we came here often to fish, to heal..
I married again, but it didn’t last.
I couldn’t find the fish among the stones
It should have worked the fault s mine
we’re still friends, for what that’ts worth.
I flip the jig out land It on top the pile
the I rise the rod lifting as I do the lure
rises off the stones and drops down.
then down again. my eldest whoops
as he horses a 12 Inched out from the rubble.
as usual my son and heir gets tangled
on just about everything. I lay
my rood rod down to help him
get straightened out. when I pick up
my rod the lure Is struck
by a good size bass that fights
with shaking head and wild recourse
to the air. the boy, he’s 30,
give m the same look as when
he found out that his first, and my
youngest were born the same day.
It’s a bit of a family joke but
a soon as they can hold a pole
we’ll bring ‘em:. fathers and son,
brother and nephew.,
we’ll bring em to the ballast stones.
you can never start too early
to learn to find
the fish amid the stones.