Return

At the turn of the tide
when the great heron hunts
and the sea is diluted by tears,
we will turn and upstream swim
to the altar of clear waters.

The silver thieveries of the sleepless rain
return
in prawn shell and herring scale
seized in black-lipped bony mouths
brought home the only way we know - as flesh

offered up to the ravenous trees,
our part of the ancient pact;
the lives we will not live to see
will be cherished by a forest grown
on salmon flesh and salmon bone.


K.A.WOOD