Long-lines
They’d all have cleared and ploughed and harrowed up and down and sown in turn
Each lot of tacked inbye, outrun, drill and rig in their own townships and been around
The headlands of the Horn and Hope in the image here from way back when
The burns, black as the Styx, were full of salmon and brown trout and char
Fairly abounded and a man could walk, they say, across the beach, then
the narrows and sound
On the decks of brigs and gigs, cots, cutters, drifters, luggers, smacks,
scows, skiffs, tugs, yawls and the frigates, big liners and tall ships passing and
tenders and old wrecks from the pier
On the island straight over to the cliff-fall and fixed light on the shore on the far side.
Today at first light the back of six in the morning in the light mist, hail and rain,
The flag on the slipway down at half-mast, Pibroch and Loch Carron and all
The flights of migratory terns and herring-gulls following them near astern
As if they were a John Deere or Ferguson or a white Clydesdale or garron,
With MacLeod and MacLean and their ancient landcraft and their hands, are the last pair
to keep going out still.
They shift gear and bale out and cast off with their long-lines and deep-lines and bag-nets
and darrows on the slack tide,
Dragging and hauling on the ropes, letting go of an endless chain.
No Comments