Casting the mel, positions set
Strong hands have woven every net.
Shouldering his haaf, Highland Laddie’s won.
‘That curved lip of sand’s the spot to be
Just watch them ride the tide to me.’
Up to their chest black water comes
Though not one man his back has turned.
The Solway courses through their veins
Tilt forward, no tug upon the net
There’s time to catch a beauty yet.
Haafing for salmon while others sleep
Out of the Solway’s bed they’ll leap.
The clouds sit low, the tide gains pace
Along the channel roll the waves.
While oystercatchers wheel and dip
A salmon moves to kiss the lip…
Mist-enshrouded effigies of day
Annan and Eastriggs fade away.
Tilt forward, a flip, another one
More salmon to their death have come.
The haaf is flipped, one more is trapped
The water on the coast now laps.
Those quirks and nuances of the tide
Winged horses on the reestings ride…