Iolaire, December 2012

Cold
water
waves
wind

Sea
rock
ship
wreck

Shore
swell
down
death

Dawn
calm
light
survived

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Footsteps in the snow

A thin layer of snow
greets the first light
of the winter morning
dawning late in pink hues

A line of footsteps lead
from the blackhouse
down the slope
and to the water

A swirl of smoke
writes in the pale
northern sky
telling a story

For no footsteps
have yet returned
for several days
the sea has been empty

A stack of peat
dwindling over months
more carried to the fire
as it softly crackles its tale

Over the hilltop
the smoke drifts
looking down the sealoch
where no movement is seen

Only some driftwood
out by the headland
nothing on the slow swell
is that a sail in the water?

None knows what befell
the boat at the headland
except the fire glowing dully
and the smoke

Gently drifting
over the scene of loss
Forming
A wreath

The Pabbay boat

Row boys, row!
We're going out again
The sail will help us on our way
Out to the fishing grounds

Look, there goes another boat
They too are venturing forth
Can't be too bad a day
If we're all out here just now

Ominous grey clouds
scudding on the rising wind
soon touching galeforce
soon right up to stormforce

From the open ocean
Squalls of rain fly past
The islands loom up to the west
Now shrouded from sight

Row boys, row!
We've got to turn back
if we can
The sail has gone

Did you see the others?
Not for quite some time
Never mind, keep bailing
We may yet have a chance

Two days the storm lasted
nobody could put to sea
the herring was left uncaught
as the boats remained in port

The boat from Mingulay
weathered the storm to return
to their island
safe and well

Pabbay lost ALL
its menfolk
that May Day in 1897
all in one boat

The boat

Sailing the waters of the far northwest
Braving the elements, fair and foul
Guarding the lives of all on board
Bringing their livelihood safely to shore

Aided by motorpower, perhaps earlier sail
A net from the stern, or a line athwart
Hooks to catch mackerel
A creel for some crabs, or a lobster

Within sight of Suilven, Stac Polly or An Teallach
The Clisham a beacon, high up in Harris
Bowing for the blue men of Shiant
Or bucking in the Atlantic swell

Hastily brought in for that storm of a lifetime
Tethered on a mooring, in safety they thought
Found crashed on the boulders
When the storm had blown itself out

Many's a time I walked by on Goat Island
Ever more pieces went missing each time
Until only the bow remained on the strand
And finally only its soul, winging away to the Minch