Limmer

Gráinne Smith

Written for a fisherman's wife — married at nineteen,
a mother at twenty, widowed at twenty-one
when her husband was drowned at sea.

The horizon wis lined wi black crayon,
the grey clouds lowerin an grim,
I waaked by this restless limmer
an I thocht o him.

I thocht on the smell o his jersey,
an the shirt I still sleep in at nicht,
I wait for the voice in the glimmer,
hame-comin in mornin's caul licht.

Nae body aside me,
nae warmth ava,
nae hand at ma breist,
jist memories tae ca.

I mind on the smile as he ca'd me his quine,
his touch as his eyes said the rest,
noo sine that bitch his claimed him
it's a caul empty warld tae be faced.

Rinnin aside me a wee lauchin loon
maks ma hairt loup wi pride an wi pain,
his voice an his smile fair mak me stoon —
he's his faither a ower again.