Will you all remember, Remember how we ran, Through the glistening water, Pink faces turning tan. Horsey gallopey, horsey gallopey, Four tinny voices cried, Tiny minnows darted, As the breeze of summer sighed. We clambered up the clodded banks, We fell and grazed our knees, We gathered heads together To whisper secrets in the trees.
Tied off at the jetty was an old colourless boat we named the Athytanic. The word around a recent campfire was that it belonged to the local legendary angler, Nicky Cahill; who was yet to discover her missing. Our gang, the self styled Barrow Boyz had commandeered it after the unusually late floods washed her
No rods, nor gear. Catch a hold of strands of horse hair. Plait them. Loop them at the end like a hang mans noose and hope for the best. We would go to the river. It was not a river but a tributary yet we called it the Spring. And wait. There all the boys
“Can we go fishing can we go fishing?”daily she implored on the first rain free frosty day I conceded to this four year olds’ pleas . “Fishingfishingfishing” she whispered the air exploding with peals of winter suppressed giggles as I too softened. Brought a Jam jar, off we strolled, hand in gloved hand and soon