Benson & Heather Gone
In the land of Britannia,
They don’t remain nameless,
Revered by all anglers,
Carp achieve celebrity status.
From “Alice†of Kent,
To “Zelda†in Nottingham,
Mirrors, Leathers, Linears…
Even “The Kiss of Death Common.â€
Endless days spent baiting,
With nights full of wish,
Bivvied and waiting,
For that one special fish!
The pursuit of a named one,
Is what we all yearn,
“Heather the Leatherâ€
Fell once, to the one Terry Hearn.
And in Kingfisher Lake,
Lived “the people’s fishâ€
Benson the common,
Only sixty-three accomplish.
But late in the summer,
Of the year twenty ‘o’ nine,
It was good Ol’ Benson’s,
Time to decline.
And sadly as with all things,
Eventually, they must die,
Heather’s too swimming,
The big lake in the sky.
But we must go on,
In our camos or fleece,
Benson and Heather gone,
May you both… Rest In Peace.
A poem by PJ Garn