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 Stonehengc, 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.