How odd, to see the river dive and
another flow over top. It’s the trick
of a siphon, where salmon once leapt,
scales singing to the sun.
This was where my father slid
into the water, skin as white
as chalk, and creamy soft.
He brought his salmon rod here, too,
a great cane whipper with side-on spool
and we tied on silvery ticers, and the
salmon snapped and realised too late
their mistake, and fought and fought
and lost, and I see them still on the grey
stones at the shore, mouths open.
There were others, too, eggs in redd,
who moved to the quiet side water,
and just the tail moved in a curl of water,
and they changed colour as their life ended
in the silty shallows where the river hid