Cod Poem by Cheryl Savageau

It is the fish that bring them first.
Cod in such numbers as to seem endless.
Cod to fill the nets and bellies of hungry
Europeans with the tender white flesh.
Cod, it seems to them, without end.

They fill the ships,
salting the fish
down in barrels,
til the hull is full,
and head back home. This wet
cod-fishing goes on for
years, far out in the Banks,
with only an occasional stop on land.

We dry our fish in the sun
cure it in smoke-houses
and sure enough, the
foreigners hear
about it.

Soon they need
a land base
to dry the cod
which weighs less
than when wet
tastes better, too

it is these dreams
of cod that
first bring
the French
to land

dreams
of cod
the gold
of the sea
that will
fill their bellies
and their
pockets