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.
I enjoyed reading that very much. Felt in your words the rhythm of the sea and the longing for this place.
Bringing the smell of the sea and workworn honest faces. Beautiful