tidal | poem

poetry

I was born

on the east coast of Scotland

in a place where winds blow

constant like the waves

crashing into

a fishing community

fed on local history.

humble beginnings

heard in the pub

folk songs played  

among flickering flames.

buoys and hooks,

guts and bones.

people from

my east of Scotland

were proud to use their hands.

honest days ended

with an honest feed.  

hands were tools used

to work a North Sea

as cold and absent

as a smile.

people were proud

to call home a place of work

it held virtue.

I grew up among

the functional forms

of expression:

oil-stained overalls

aprons full of fish guts,

welly boots

gloves and woolly jumpers

stripped from the backs of sheep.

the local men, and women

wore threadbare moods  

honest as second-hand clothes.

and they would take pause

to talk to one another

about what the weather

was doing

as they carried or cut

tied and cast,

until the day was long.

before a dog walk

with no leads

along a coastline of scurvygrass

and stingy nettles

where I would run free.  

bones of haddock

meatless empty

crab shells, colour pink

and seaweed

would wash up

along the shoreline

lost rope and broken creels.

where the winds blew

wash lines hung

thick socks and bed linen

the work outfits

stretched along a cliff edge

homes built with sandstone.  

I come from a place

of men

with hot tempers

of women

with flush cheeks

thick stockings  

faces wrapped in winter scarfs

in anticipation

of a day’s work, out there

and along the pier.

herring lassies

homemade wicker baskets

full of the dead ones    

would tend to creels

collected from the shore.

broken rope and holes,

they tied knots like clenched fists.

until a husband

the potential for a future

with a husband

returned with the tide,  

on boats built

with swollen hands.

in the gull cry, dawn hours

of a driech morning sky

grey as a hangover, shadowing

as though a moon

hard working

hard living men

and women

with thick bones

thicker skin

would appear

with the dawn rise, ready

to set out on boats

unbreakable as a bloodline.  

set in their ways, maybe they

would empty the waters—

if weather allowed  

for white gold

shrimp, some lobster.

fishmongers pour water from a hose

gut and sell.

I left my community

as a young boy

to move south with my once

local family

I moved down there

with them

as a young boy

with thick accent,

thicker hair, freckle faced

afraid of what I knew

was no longer common

or in front of me,

but instead,

somewhere left adrift

lost at sea

blown like the puff balls

of a May day dandelion

found up on the brae.

I left as a young boy

who didnae learn

easy

wouldnae stop

hiding

up a wynd when it came

time to come in

for tea.

no more jaw

shattering sweets

no more cans

of Iron Bru.

fish suppers sat on a bench

along the pier

in celebration.   

I grew older

in southern England

caught up like a fish

strung out

like stained overalls

lost emotionally

in a net of my own

youthful reluctance

to be younger than the wind

back there

but instead

feeling less than, forever young.

oak trees lined

a cricket pitch

too many pubs

named after English royalty.

I read books

Baudelaire, Camus

Ginsberg and Baldwin.

sat alone

under a lone

willow tree.

until it was time

to go work

in a place

with no weather.

clouds blew north

above me as I closed

a book

and moved towards

another place,

I knew far less

than distance.

I grew up

parched and breathless

like the men

and women

of a final Kingdom,

men and women

who cared more

about the tide

than thoughts and words

of an idol natured

becoming man

who thought

far too much

about a past

and too little

about a new future.