This is a rewritten version of a poem from my early writing days, in response to a prompt at Miz Quickly’s September challenge to write about fall. This is probably not the kind of fall she intended, but it is a true story!
The Fisher Child
A fluffy kitten grew rapidly
into a great big Ginger Tom,
voracious for females,
rapacious for fish.
Food was hard to come by then,
just after world war two,
so the child that was me
was set to become
fishwinner to the family.
Each morning, whatever the weather,
crouched over rod at the end of the garden,
float a-bobbing in murky green Thames,
watched avidly by crouching cat,
ready to pounce on anything that wiggled
as it flew through the air to land by his nose.
Quick! Take out the hook as quick as a flash.
Cat will only eat if the fish is not dead.
One winter morning dull and drear
the fragile line had ruptured.
Balance fractured, I fell backward
into cold green water
in smart school clothes
with brand new coat.
I was anything but popular.
The cat didn’t care once he had his fish,
to him nothing else mattered.
Her own little drama as hunter played out,
the child had no thanks from that cat.