“The booming sea
where my father fed
is my destiny.”
the salmon said
to the sun, as it leapt
from the river bed
where the gravel kept
its ancient watch
and the live eggs slept
that the young fish hatch,
and the boy catch sight
in the liquid ditch
of the fry’s flash, bright
as a sixpence spun
in the morning light.
And his heart’s undone,
as the salmon start
their marathon,
but the salmon’s heart
and the growing boy’s
are a world apart
from the constant noise
in the salmon’s brain
of the ocean’s poise
to the soft refrain
that the youth repeats
as he casts again
till the arc completes
in the blameless sky
and the soft deceits
of the gaudy fly
take the creature’s eye.