Thursday, May 6, 2010

THE LAST HUNT

My Dad started me hunting mushrooms when I began to crawl. Being low to the ground like that, I never missed a mushroom. I've been hunting them ever since. Occasionally, I'm still crawling; possibly up the side of a canyon because I spotted a couple morels near the top. Or maybe across a log over a swollen stream because I saw a patch on the other side.
But as the years go by, I begin to wonder: will this be my last year to hunt? My back tells me I'm getting older, but my brain says, "No, you're not." Alas, one day it will happen. I won't be able to go mushroom hunting. What a sad year that will be for me.
You all remember the poem, "I Must Go Down to the Sea Again" by John Masefield? The title is actually "Sea Fever", but it's best known by its first line. I've copied John's idea and written my own poem about my last hunt.

I must go up to the hills again, to the towering hills and trees.
All I ask is a mushroom patch, and me on bended knees.
A sunshine day, a thrasher's song and me still a picking.
With life not rushing me along and the clock not a ticking.

I must go up to the hills again, for the call of the gypsy wind.
For April in our corner is the call of an old friend.
All I ask is a mushroom patch, and me picking for hours.
With Dutchman's Breeches, Sweet William, Violets and all the woodlawn flowers.

I must go up to the hills again, it may be my last climb.
All I ask is that mushroom patch and a field sparrow's chime.
Just one last huge patch, who could ask for anything more?
Let memories linger in that patch, when my mushroom hunts are o'er.