Swimming Upstream
Salmon, in silver and gleaming
transparency, its spirit struggles towards
source like any human being — but
all bodies fall, by Christmas it lies
heavy in pink on winter plates.
Porcelain can make anything look
good, each dead body is hook-faced.
Suddenly he’s just flesh to taste.
None can save the world alone.
We are all in a personal war, inner
battles quiet, unseen by others, breathing
hard & swimming upstream. There’s
only one who sees, knows we are
worth more than these eight ounces
of silver, hunks of dead metal weighing
more than the soul on any scale.
You must understand before it’s too late
everything here is back to front &
anything that captures your attention
you must go beyond. That salmon still
swims but entirely in a void, far
vaster than anything that lives.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
