That was the problem. Everyone said.

Fed too much freedom as a child.

Here would come handsome Uncle John, fresh from the river,

galumphing up the village, waders flapping ungainly,

the shimmer slung over his shoulder.

This one a lucky catch.

This one confiscated from a hapless poacher— enemy for life.

They’d thud onto the kitchen table while Mum put the kettle on.

Eat enough and your blood’ll catch

the oxygenated pink salt tang of it.

Instil it.

Catch me now, thrilling against the festival surge,

counter-weaving gap to gap, coming up for air,

leaping, wild-eyed on the dancefloor.

Can’t help it.

Tides of politics, society, religion, authority, expectation, acceptability, regulation, conformity. I’ll chance against them all.

Die trying.

It’s different for the farmed.

Their sadness will settle in your bones,

fear in your blood,

despair under your skin.

Beware.

My 11th birthday and John has fashioned flies to hang in my ears.

Battle regalia.

I’ll survive the coming waves, swerve each

cast and mesh.

Snagged, maybe, but still pushing back

upstream to my time, my shimmer.