My metal belly of a salmon -
my history is magnetic,
draws me back from the spume of sea
to the froth of a river, this liquid past
that I know, that rushes through gills,
hammers the heart to the work of the liver.
I know the sting of salt and the pierce of clarity
of fresher water, it takes every cell of me
aligned to a single purpose; these returns
can be an agony, to push and leap
for craved truths, and when I leave behind
the free rise of the black wings of cormorants,
I hear the herons' laments,
but a salmon is willed onward,
and like them, we adjust and adjust our course
and nature even against the flow,
we keep our secrets amongst the pebbles,
we lay down our hopes -
the pain of living is also its ecstasy.
Image from pixabay.