A storypoem written with a bit a Scots parlance. For all the David Balfour of Shaws, and Alan Breck Stewart types in this world.

Have ye not known the tale of
The Whaleshead? A black awful time
It was – gripped by such a dread fright –
When a raging sea, wroth with hunger, stole
Near a hunner or two more a sad sorry souls
And sent um down, a-feared and a-shriekin',
To Davie Jones afore their time.

Aye …
The bleakest of times it was -

And it came in of a sudden,
This bitter blustering thing,
Rumblin' low and a-moanin' -
As a fair bonnie woman in moil -
Strokin' all the senses daft, this
Portend black of billowing clouds,
Bearing down on the shore bitter
With a sharp-set iciness that bit
Fiercely at the skin like the
Teeth of Serpents

Oh laws how it roared and
Carried on; that perishin' cold sleet
As sure as death freezin' the hair stiff –
We were aghast at the shear sight of it,
And dinnae know our future near;
Nature up in a snuff and the waves
Dancin' high with windy fingers,
Pullin' up the bones of wizards
And warlocks and things -

“Save our souls,” was the cry
Of those in the way of harm –
“Hoot toot,” was the sneer of
Those smug at a distance …

And a dread sight it was;
This loathy tempest; pit-mirk
The sea and the ramping waves -
Oh a prospect compelling the mind
Awful with the rumble of destruction;
A dire muckle of hopelessness that
Held the bones and heart in the
Callous fingers of chance -

“Please help us,” was the cry
Of those in the way of harm –
“Hoot toot,” the rejoinder was of
Those aloof and smug at a distance …

There was nary measure of time;
Day and night fluxing together in a
Black swirl of clouds and thunderous
Mayhem, and all the while the tempest
Brooding barmy on the hapless town and
Outlying vessels; shriekin' hell like banshees

‘Most a fortnight it lasted -
A short fortnight, minus three -
Tearin' the soul outa any strong man;
Razing cottages and taverns and busting
The mizzen from many a sea-worthy vessel;
Most of um breached or broke up like kindlin',
And most all the God fearing townsfolk
Begging desperate fur Duns Scotus -

“God will save us,” was the
Cry of those with the strong faith –
“Hoot toot,” was the answer from
Those at a safe distance …

A hideous time it was, one
That left pocks on me soul. And now
When the clap-o-thunder fits me bereft,
And the heart cries out in the blackest of
Despair, I can still see all those poor souls
Lammin' desperate in a shit-mucklety tomb.
No …ne’er in my life will I ever forget the
Whaleshead, and ne’er, ever, of a surety,
Will I forget those souls that passed on …

Richard Lloyd Cederberg
4/08