By Gerald Solomon
Left that small Welsh mining town,
walked on, turning questions over,
got down to a winding unknown river,
watched a strong rush of waters
fallen from our slow far off mountains.
Starlings flying by, a few,
(no portent, just being themselves)
coming down to strut and feed―
adept, made to trust their normal trust.
White waters, exciting, dangerous.
And I thought how salmon, crowding there,
homing in after wide ocean years,
(for safety of their spawn, not themselves,)
how fine salmon must leap to trace their vital weirs.
Gerald Solomon was born in London and studied English Literature at Cambridge University. After a short spell as sales assistant at a bookshop in London’s Charing Cross Road, he worked as a producer at the BBC. Subsequently becoming engaged in education, he helped found General Studies courses at Hornsey College of Art, and this led eventually to an enjoyable period teaching poetry courses at Middlesex University. He retired early in order to paint and write. His poems have appeared in numerous magazines in the USA and UK as he prepares his first collection. He is married, with four children, and lives in Manhattan.
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