what the water says
well, i've had a request for more poems--so here they are, fresh from a sailing trip and salmon run.
we slip off in the fog early
and it hides us all day
as we cross the open straight--
26 feet of clarity.
I'm reminded of a story:
a ship, trapped in some unknown ocean's mists
the crew's voices silenced
by the choking white.
Magic places live in the mist.
We pull into the bay,
tucked behind rock outcroppings
and uninhabited isles.
And as we drop anchor,
the fog rolls over us
like a sheet,
protecting us from the monsters beyond the bay.
Anything feels safe when the woodstove is stoked--
Even a hurricane at the back door of a home that can sink.
I
I see bodies on the banks of rivers
drifting in the current--
bloated, discoloured,
empty sockets, eyes plucked by gulls.
The feasting has begun.
II
And when I glimpse the one still living
struggling in the shallows
I can't help
I do nothing but watch
as he uses his final strength against the current,
but the water's too low
III
And it brings tears to my eyes,
his struggle to breathe,
something primal I have lost
and he dies under my gaze
IV
Just upstream they thrash a final frenzy
all this death
only given terrible meaning in my eyes:
their end only comes in the spawning grounds.