The fishing in our village
Is a heritage for me,
By the quiet restless waters
Of the flowing river Dee.
Well marked to show its sandy hills
The channels and the Salmon kills.

Early in the morning
Before the dawn has landed,
The vessels shed their anchor ropes
From bows the mud has branded.
They slowly drift into the tide
With crews half drunk and starry eyed.

Coffee black has almost gone,
A coloured sky that marks the dawn,
Flocks of curlew on the wing,
Whimbrel, Peewit start to sing.
The men alert with oar each side
Prepare to fight an ebbing tide.

These fish a quarry they must stalk
Armed with nylon lead and cork,
The net must drop the time precise,
Or alas the catch will not suffice.
To feed a family wife and hound
Or sell at ninety pence a pound.

(Brian Doleman)