POEM TITLE
Black River
POEM
Black River
The clouds, nimbostratus melons ripped slowly
open in fresh-cut sunlight, ashes strewn
to the Forth, averting the eye of a tsunami.
Coal-black surf unravels, a shoreward pall:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
Azure-grey rapids, a stiff, ocean-blasted haar
to scrape and engulf the pier, like the murky,
bituminous mirl in a half-downed Guinness
savoured in the Lobster Pot at high tide:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
After a night of storm flags, a mangled rudder
is scooped up by Blackness. Entire days
smoulder, not a word is written down for the
yachts and oil barges littering the bay:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
Smokestack fumes brush the pilothouse window.
The crude leakage of oil, lagoon-calm, a sky clouded
with gulls, fill the stricken islet, held fast
by steel-glass pillars, flint-grey benefit of bridges:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
A mile offshore, some cargo ship loiters in bulk,
cabin lights a blaze of acetylene, rust hardening
like paint, tousled to its slime-varnished rudder
of clay-grey dulse, rocked by the shiver of the sea:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
I berth in Blackness for a fortnight, then retire
back to brine. Four hours left on my shift, coffee
aftertaste lacing my tongue, head wave-numb,
eyes surf-swollen, ears drilled by a shriek of whistles:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
Barges take to the Forth, at a proud remove
from city and tidewaiter’s notice, closer
to the abalone and tanked derricks, fuel-
vapour haze shimmering on the rocks:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
At the helm, I reach up, the radio cord swinging,
get a strict handle of eddy and wind,
shut the cabin door, start up motors. The vigour
of shock waves ebbs. Now it’s pedal to the metal.
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
The deck lads drop mooring lines into the surge,
find their berths after six hours’ sleep, spurring
where rudder and tide meet, hold fast to the winch,
steady propulsion and heated backwash:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
Entire shoals of moray beheaded by a pen knife,
our lobster pot unravels in an abcess of barnacle.
You hear the buoy’s outlying clang, knelling
the sacrifice of sailors by maelstrom and breaker.
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.
Harbour waters churn in the low balmy afternoon,
or else are butchered by the wind’s hurrying claw.
The red pennant tacked to her antenna pole flaps loudly.
We usher another vessel into Blackness’ refuge:
Witnesses to dusk and daybreak.