We sit along the water’s edge
Waiting for a tug on our lines
About old friends and company
Family members we’re missing.
Shots heard in the distance
I pray the targets missed
Your hands show your age
Your face, sun worn
Your eyes still that of a five year old.
Smiling, when I catch a weed pike
Or you hear the sound of the old field toad
A thermos full of hot coffee
All the stories you have told.
So many memories
I love that old flannel shirt you’re wearing
I’ve sewn the buttons and your torn pocket sleeve
More times than I can count
Looks like the fog’s rolling out
The sun is coming up.
It’ll be lunchtime, before you know it.
Image from Google Images: gettyimages.com