The last time
No sky that day just fog dense and damp
And the bite of coming winter in the air.
Shaking out the children’s winter coats
My waters breaking
And you, my little salmon, beating back upstream
Not yet ready, clinging to your due of paradise.
Two days they urged you to leave and you would not.
In the end they gave you little choice.
With no roar of rage, a sigh of regret only
You left your dark watery cave
And salmon leapt into my arms
Your face as bright as any sun.