Springs Poem by Kathleen Jamie

Full March moon and gale-force easters, the pair of them
sucking and shoving the river
back into its closet in the hills - or trying to. Naturally

the dykes failed, the town's last fishing boat
raved at the pier-head, then went down; diesel-
corrupted water cascaded into front-yards, coal-holes, garages,

and there's naethin ye can dae,
said the old boys, the sages, which may be true, but river -
what have you left us? Evidence of an inner life, secrets
of your estuarine soul hawked halfway

up Shore Street, up East and Mid Shore - and arrayed
in swags all through the swing-park: plastic trash and broken reeds,
driftwood, bust TVs . . .
and a salmon,
dead, flung beneath the see-saw, the crows are onto at once.