Salmon-Fishing

The days shorten, the south blows wide for showers now,

The south wind shouts to the rivers,

The rivers open their mouths and the salt salmon

Race up into the freshet.

In Christmas month against the smoulder and menace

Of a long angry sundown

Red ash of the dark solstice, you see the anglers,

Pitiful, cruel, primeval,

Like the priests of the people that built Stonehenge,

Dark silent forms, performing

Remote solemnities in the red shallows

Of the river’s mouth at the year’s turn,

Drawing landward their live bullion, the bloody mouths

And scales full of the sunset

Twitch on the rocks, no more to wander at will

The wild Pacific pasture nor wanton and spawning

Race up into fresh water.