The Reservoir

When we lived on Radcliffe Road in those
days of old.
Before there was any Copse Road.

There once was a reservoir.
We could see it from afar.
No access in those days on a bike.
You crossed the trams and then the dyke.

Dad would go fishing there.
Running his fingers through his thick black hair.
Staring into the murky deep.
For those fishes he would seek.

Sat upon those sloping cobbles.
Waiting patiently for his float to wobble.
There it goes, his hands a tremble, reel him 
in, nice and gentle.

We would go sometimes, and sit with him.
Silently waiting in anticipation of this giant 
in the deep.
Who generally slumbered fast asleep.

"Can we go home dad were bored?"
He nodded silently and off we strode..
We only lived across the road.

One day my sister she went a crashing into 
the brambles and got a lashing.
My dad did sigh in relief.
Due to the fact that his daughter, did not 
end up in the water.

My brother he would go there too.
Just like his father through and through.
Faces rapt in concentration keep nets ready at their station.

Friday night was competition this is when 
they would do their wishing.
“Let it be, my turn tonight, don't let those
fishes all take flight.”

At the weigh in they were anxious
To see those nets with fish a thrashing.
After all.
It was their passion.

Taylor Crowshaw Copyright 2018