I returned to the Tweed, one bright summer’s day,
‘Twas in August this time and not in May.
The magic was there and so were the fish
And my longing to fulfil a really great wish - 
Of catching a salmon, a grilse would do,
Fresh run, lice covered, silver and blue.
We fished the Wheal Pool for an hour or more,
Sand martins, herons and otters we saw.
But where were the fish, fresh run and new?
Hiding deep down at the back of the pool?
And then, with a bang and a lurch, I was in!
The line pulled from the reel, I saw the big fin.
The salmon was hooked, I played all my line.
Mac, my guide, said “be careful, you’re fine.”
Was I really? my heart in my mouth
I watched as the fish pulled hard to the south.
I leant the rod over, an eye on the bend,
The fish pulled some more and here was the end.
I knew it was mine, it came to the net.
It lay there, silver, fresh liced, glistening wet.
I couldn’t take it, my heart beat so fast
Man against fish, my conscience asked,
This fish has travelled thousands of miles
Across the wide sea towards the isles.
And now it is home on its way to breed
Must I really satisfy the need –
Of showing to friends the fish that I caught
When I know in my heart that I really ought - 
To set it free, to travel some more
Past Tweed Hill, Lennel and Floors.
So I let it go, so proud and so grand
It swam upstream through the rocks and the sand,
Back to its birthplace ready to spawn
As the new day breaks on a glorious morn.

A poem by Sally Pizii