The river flows on slowly
As on it’s muddy edge
The fisherman and picanin
Cast lines from rock and ledge
To tempt the greedy barbel,
The wise old bass to catch,
They dream of monster fishes
For which there’ll be no match.
The Boss with rod and reel and line,
With lures and spoons and baits,
The barefoot, bare skinned picanin
With a cloth around his waist.
The Boss he casts out far and true
With skilful practised throw
While the picanin’s line dangles there
Just moving with the flow.
A bite, a strike and victory
Flashing silver in the sun
A heavy, fat and struggling fish
Is from the waters won.
And the barefoot, bare skinned picanin
Puts it proudly on a tray,
And sells it to the Boss’s wife
With the rest he’s caught that day.
Snapshots of rural Zimbabwe