George M. Noblitt

OX-BOW ON THE BROOK

 

On a cool crisp September morning

When summer makes fall it's bride

He sits on the soft muddy creek bank

His young grandson at his side

 

He hands the youngster the worn cane pole

Then he slowly baits the hook

Once again they fish the same old spot

At the ox-bow on the brook

 

Today the boy questions his old grandpa

Why always do we fish here

A tear slowly slips from the old man

As he pulls the young boy near

 

Long ago when grandma was alive

Now so many years ago

She'd pack lunch in a picnic basket

Here we fished, while she would sew

 

Your uncle surely loved this old spot

He'd always stay way too late

But he never returned home from the war

Back in nineteen-sixty eight

 

Grandma never got over the shock

Guess it nearly killed me too

She took sick a year or two later

There was little we could do

 

Your Pa and I would often fish here

When it was just him and I

Who could dream there'd be an accident

We lost him last July

 

Son, you asked why we always fish here

I'm not certain I know why

Maybe here lives sweet memories

And our loved ones never die