for calum
they straggle out of their black-houses
silently greeting the peaty air
as they untether their hopeful boats
leading them like dogs to the end of the grizzled pier
the sleep-fuddled sea rolls over and grumbles
into the thickened waist of morning
and the blue-breasted hills
breathe in the slanting sighs of heathered moors
hand-hewn oars slice through buttery water
drawing and quartering the awakening sea
with its insatiable craving for the rarefied taste
of smoked and salty Lewis men
with a careless wave and shrug of swollen shoulders
winter's teasing tongue of storm lashes out
licking heaving decks
flicking crumbs of frozen fishermen into the greedy bay
wind-whipped dogs limp home and nudge the lamenting shore
with torn sails between their legs
without their singing masters and silver creels
they bring no solace to the widowed croft
note: Black-houses were traditional thatched huts on the Isle of Lewis. Fires were built in the centre of the living area and there was no chimney. The smoke escaped through the roof, blackening the interior of the dwelling.
1st Place for Poetry
The Writers' Collective/Winnipeg Free Press Poetry Contest, 2011
The Stanza Poetry Map of Scotland (poem no. 112: Port Voller), 2014
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