The Salmon Run

Three gulls perch above their prize,
The carcass of a trout.
On sentry at the broken weir entrance.
The sky is poised for rain, 
Which the river will gratefully receive.

Still smolting, an adult salmon slinks up-
to acclimatise, its sleek but wilting body.
For now, its upstream journey’s halted, 
While anadromous gills 
Reverse the saline flow,
After two thousand miles in the open playground.

Funnelled and pummelled towards new dangers,
A child’s bucket scooping, winged assassins looming,
Invisible poisons spilling, it’s own body a mystery to itself.
It must learn on the job.

In a few days, maybe even weeks, or perhaps today?
It will set off once more, without fanfare.
Hoping to make one final pitch.
Until the River Exe becomes the Barle in 40 clicks.

Another salmon splits the surface, 
Leaping towards the bank of broken rocks. 
As if looking for another route 
Around the pass. 
It barely has room for any leverage though, 
In the stony, oxygen deprived shallows.
It does not leap again. 

But for us, the memory is permanent. 
Reaching two feet into the sky, 
All silvery brown and red hope. 
Their hope is also ours.

From Duckes Meadow bank-
The river’s ten mile tidal limit,
We look upon this broken concrete hump, 
Which could not have measured up
To the flow, coursing down 
From stream to river and then on
To the canal and estuary below
Where time slows down.

St James’ weir has become 
An accidental run of sorts. 
It’s silty bed, a gravel labyrinth 
Of opportunity.

At base camp, on Salmon Pool Lane, 
Returning salmon must try to recoup their energy.
They must adapt or die.
Upstream, an osprey, a pilgrim of the sky,
Was spotted yesterday, 
Come for a bit of city sightseeing,
Hoping for a juicy pick.
Waiting at the newly formed entrance, 
Queueing to sense what lies beyond.
A hidden message pulses between 
The salmon’s viscous synapses.
Without hesitation,
It flicks its forked tail,
And lives to fight another day. 

Ceri Rees