Hard weeks those mutterings of tides, 
of chandlers, barrel builders, of him
judging harpoons, of their home strewn 
with charts, she's weary skin and bone.

She turns away from dark waters, has no need
to see his greedy boat surge down the Firth. 
Like the whales, she knows its sails, their flying 
speed that carves wakes, announces death.

She’ll unlace convention's whalebones, seek 
the succour of solitude, breathe perfumed shores.
For ebbing Moons there'll be no presence heavy 
beside her. For flowing seasons all will be hers.

Until blood soils the silver of the Tay and
his vessel returns corpse-laden. Callous handed,
he will be fresh-tattooed. She hopes at best 
for ambergris among the baleen and barrels.

About the Author

Finola Scott confesses she writes compulsively. Her poems are published widely - New Writing Scotland, Lighthouse, Gutter. Although she knows poetry won’t change the world, she keeps writing. Winner of the MacDiarmid Tassie, Runner up in the McLellan competition. Three publications to date. Info at FB Finola Scott Poems. www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poet/finola-scott/