14/3/2026
8am until 12pm
The rivers may or may not of been fishable. I didn't take the risk, I went to Tilcon.
Worms as bait. Cold overnight. Was not in the mood.
Say no more.
So I asked chatGTP to write me a poem.
The wind came first, sharp and thin,
Whispering winter across the skin.
A grey sky hung where hope should be,
While waters kept sighing endlessly.
The rod stayed still. The float did too.
No silver flash, no sudden pull through.
Just drifting hours, slow and long,
And the distant cry of a lonely song.
I wasn’t sure why I came that day,
When warmth and rest felt worlds away.
My heart was heavy, my mood was low,
Like winter caught in the undertow.
The bucket empty, the daylight thin,
Only the cold kept settling in.
No fish, no triumph, nothing to claim—
Just numb fingers and a quiet shame.
So I packed my line as the dusk drew near,
Breath like smoke in the brittle air.
The lake kept secrets I couldn’t keep—
And carried my sadness back to the deep.
Crazy how much it knows. Gets me every time!!
