Matthew Griffiths


Cod Philosophy

Ice drops as quickly as any shoal

when light punches a hole through water.

Swim my sons, swim daughters, swim small fry

of indeterminate gender. Brine does strange things

up here, the sea twitches its fingers. You wouldn’t believe

that those who conceived of our mothers

below ice floes above us once thought

that hangweed scooped, caught and lifted

us into a saltless and sifted up there,

expanding our brains with air to show us a face

it called sun. We know our place, we know this sun feeds

our own menu, the plankton and weeds. Keep your eyes

either side of you, fry, all the same,

don’t rise beyond the main’s middle – remember

we are small in number but once we were many.