Makkin hame By James Sinclair

James Sinclair's poem depicts a sixareen crew on a night of rough weather

Read By James Sinclair

Makkin hame

Charlotte Anne took da rodd her ancestors drave
strampin ower da heicht o white cappit waves
lik a flat stane skitterin ower da ream-calm.
Her sail filt tae da brim wi a nor-wasterd,
fish room filt tae lipperin wi muckle codlin.

Bridders Jamsie, skipper, an Willie wirkin da sail.
Jamsie’s boys Geordie, an Mansie wha wis
named eftir his grand-fedder. Da idder crew
Johnnie Brucker, Sammy o Nort-Hoose an da
sheep tief’s youngest boy, Daniel.

Willie wis watchin wadder, windrin erts
an takin meids as da mirkenin fell aw roond. Jamsie
wis aw fur turnin her heid ida wind, waitin morning licht.
Willie said naa, da wind wid turn southerly
an dey wid miss dir chance wi da tide.

Darkenin cam an wi nae mön tae licht der wey
dey reefed in da sail, doon-haulin wi wan easy pull,
reducin canvas an haevin up da rackie on da tows.
Da speed fell aff Charlotte Anne as shu cam tae heel.
Willie ahint da stong, laid his hand on da halyard cleat.

Slippin aff his sea-buits an his ooie-socks
he set his twa cowld feet, een on da first swill
an wan on da second harsing.
Feelin da sea coorse trowe him, lik da blöd
in his veins, his hert pumpin fae da rush o da waves.

His lang taes, wirkin dir wey back an fore, ower
da splintery boards, lik fingers saftly wirkin
dir wey up da warm riggy-bane o a lass in a box bed.
Charlotte Anne plooed on, da mirr o da wind ida stroods.
Awthing tick, slokkit in pitch an treacle.

Willie’s een glinderin tae pick oot da moder-dye
taes feelin fur da hertbaet o a wirkin sixareen.
Her thin skeen streetched ower eddy an undertow.
A voice in his heid, da voice o his bridder
a lang lost ghost o da gale o eighty wan.

Caallin fae da deep ‘Nae guid’ll come o dis, mak fur da nordert’
an as dey med nort, he listened as Charlie’s wirds faded awey.
Wi da dark cam da cowld, aabody happit up in whit claes dey hed
tinkin lang fur da chair afore da stove an warm bannocks.
tryin herd no tae tink o da crabs gettin dir eyes.

Wi dat sam, Willie lookit ower an saw
a smudge o licht tae port, da Wasting,
an tae starboard da sam, da hooses o Broch.
Listenin careful fur da baa brak at da point
Willie yelled, ‘Mak full helm tae port’.

As shu swang roond, he felt trowe his feet
da tide grippin da keel draggin her, racin
intae da soond. Willie pulled aff a lump o twist
pokkit it in his pipe an strak a match.
‘Nearly dere boys, drap da sail an grip da oars –

we’ll be roond da ness in a minute ur twa.’
An wi dat sam dey rowed, pullin her oot o da tide.
Dey saw lichts ashore, smelt paet reek
an dey aw let oot a lang breath o relief, whin     
da forefit scrapit up da shingly beach.