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"There is an aboriginal legend, reported to have originated among Darling River tribes, that the Murray cod carries on the membranous walls of its stomach a shaded map of its birthplace.

This was said to have been made by the fish lying in the shade of gumtrees in the heat of the day.

Anglers have gone forth convinced of this theory, determined to fish in the shade of every red gum.

There is no map, of course, and the cod is more likely to be found at the bottom of the deepest holes, where the water is coolest"

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There's Codfish At Yarrawonga

The Murray River's running higher than it has in any time that I can easily recall

But when I was small I never used to take the smallest notice

I only wanted fish to come onto my line and let me be a kind of hunter

The mighty river has been poorly for so long

She's like an aunt with a disease who's forgotten how to care from day to day

And only hints at remembered glories that reappear in a fleeting splendour from time to time to make us feel so sad for her

There is water around the ghosts of long dead trees
where last summer I could walk on ancient forest paths

Over the dried and cracking mud that made me feel withered and old and responsible for not caring hard enough

But now there's water and I can't walk that way anymore

Someone said there's codfish at Yarrawonga

Said that somebody he knew was catching them

Maybe not as big as in the old days but someone knows they're out there and somebody is catching them

And maybe there's a little kid that might get to be a hunter and perhaps my aunt
will dress up in her splendour one more time
if it rains

If it only rains enough for a mighty Murray once again

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Murrumbidgee

I had a vision of a beautiful river in my mind

of the Murrumbidgee as it once was

It flowed between rugged and thickly forested hills and ranges

its water pure and clear

That flowed slowly past beaches and over bars of clean white sand

Roared over rapids of clean, gleaming, water-worn rocks

and slid into deep, quiet, snag-filled pools inhabited by big Goodoo

Pools that were lined with gnarled Casuarinas that leant lazily over the water

and cast their dappled shadows over the pools and the homes of Goodoo

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Images of a River

Between rugged and deeply-folded hills and ranges

Knitted dark and green with the eucalypts that clothe them, and where

The Currarong's calls ring

The gleaming river snakes.

Beaches of river sand, clean, coarse and white.

The restful gloom beneath the Casuarinas that border

Wind sighing lamentfully through their needles.

Patches of old river bed Bleached and rounded river stones

Amongst sand and scattered Casuarina needles, brown and dry.

Silver Perch, grey flitting shadows

Thrumming over shelving sand bars;

Water pure and clear

Golden in the sun

Roaring over rapids of clean, gleaming, water-worn rocks

Curling past boulders in deep current

Sliding into emerald pools;

Deep, quiet, snag-filled.

Within, green and marbled Goodoo

Preside watchfully, waiting for prey,

While overhead, gnarled Casuarinas loom,

Casting their dappled shadows on the water.

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Ode to the Angler

Sitting on the bank

On a river slow & grand

Sitting on the bank

With a rod in ones hand

Oh the joy & bliss

The rod twitches at the end

Your heart thumps and you spring to attend

I'm on, I'm on you yell

And excitement starts to swell

The water breaks and a tail splashes

Your the happiest man by many a yard

You reel your catch in & your heart you gulp

It's a big'n by many a mark

Only to be disappointed by a European Carp

Author Ian Stead

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MEMORIES

Your sitting around the fire,
all your fishing mates are there.
And your all constantly moving inward,
as you try to avoid the cold night air.

Your eyes are straining through the darkness,
trying to focus, on a baited rods tip.
When suddenly there is movement,
and you rod begins to dip.

You take off from your chair,
like a sprinter in a race.
Oblivious to the obstacles,
as you hit a blistering pace.

The drag is really screaming,
this is surely a fish of world class.
As you release the rod and hit the brakes,
and end up squarely on your arse.

But the rod is in your hand,
and now you begin the fight.
Ignoring the laughter from your mates,
as they watch you in the light.

After numerous attempts at standing,
you finally make it to your feet.
The fish is coming closer now,
and you know you`ve got him beat.

He finally breaks the surface,
a huge old Murray Cod.
A mates there with a landing net,
waiting for the all important nod.

Only inches from the net,
he performs one final roll.
And snap goes the line,
as the fight has taken its toll.

And although you swear & curse,
as the legend returns to the deep.
Even though the fish has gone,
the lasting memories you will forever keep.

Author Stephen Harris

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THE COST OF FISHING

The trip is planned,
we have set the dates.
No women allowed,
just going fishing with mates.

You've caught the bait,
and packed all the gear.
One esky for fish,
and three for beer.

The weekend is close,
just four days to go.
So you tell the wife,
who of course says no.

After hours of bargaining,
all is not lost;
She doesn't mind you going,
but what did it cost.?.

Well first it's the flowers,
then a romantic dinner as well;
This is just the beginning,
of a long four days of hell.

You must now cut the lawn,
and then paint the fence;
And she gets all your wages,
you just keep fifty cents.

And one other thing,
before she is through;
You must visit the inlaws,
and take the kids to the zoo.

But for now you can go,
and after all that complaining;
You only get two steps outside,
and then it starts raining.

So the lesson to be learnt,
before you go down this track;
Is don't tell the wife you are going,
until after you get back .

Author Stephen Harris

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The Angling Man.

The one who sits for many a long hour,
in the cold biting wind and the drenching shower.
The man knows not time and he know not cold,
for the burden he carries, it infects young and old.

The angling man has but one rule in his book,
hes there to tempt the fish, into biting his hook.
The long silent moments, sometimes broken with a boil,
the wily fish seem to know and are forever his foil.

The thought of going home with the promised meal,
can often be empty just like his wicker creel.
The one driving force, his single constant wish,
is to take back to his family, a brace of fine fish.

He does it for a feed and the feeling of bliss,
when the rod starts to buckle and the line starts to hiss.
Those are the days that the angling man will crave,
and it is this very reason that makes him its slave.

His money will go, on new tackle and line,
and the love from his wife, will suffer in time.
But on he will strive, because may be today,
he will hook that big one, and it wont get away.

Author Ray King

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Click on Poem title to read.
Untitled	There's Codfish At Yarrawonga	*Murrumbidgee*	*images of a River*	*Ode to an Angler*
Memories	The Cost of Fishing	*The Angling Man*