October Salmon

There are some kinds of salmon That run late in the year Far up into the hills, Oh, you late-comers, I can hear The beat of your pale blood Pulsing through slime, towards, Visibly, the dry leaves, the white spots Falling, falling.

Each fatal fall is a triumph Crashing through that spinning shroud To finish the restless game. The trees creak in the gale, branches arc. No break in their minds—the high swirls, Hostility of rock, cluttered in toy piles— The swirling buttocks of bone. The sky rips loose. We are all empty eyes chasing shells!

Let the hawks in the dark here crush, Let them throw you beyond the sun. Let me catch you at the top— Oh, my headaches caught this tender voice! The scream of wet wings dissolving, You salmon, you wild beasts, Gone glimmering around that bright curve.

• Ted Hughes