Whaleshead

(A poetic tale written with a bit of Scottish parlance)

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 –
Stroking 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 …

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Comments

I loved the Scottish parlance. I don’t think I’ll forget the Whaleshead either! I really enjoyed this work.

This is an impressive piece worth reading then re-reading to ensure not a word is missed – wonderful work!

The imagery in this is wonderful, and I love the “Scottish parlance!” It makes it that much more vivid.

really lost myself in the imagery in this poem. fantastic
the language

dances on the page

This is absolutely endearing in content and scope. I don’t use the word ‘brilliant’ often, but in this instance it applies. I just love how this write wraps the reader in the imagery and the smells and the fears and the confusions of the storyline. I can see the influences of Robert Lewis Stevenson here.
~Nadine~

I can imagine that this write must have taken awhile to create. The flow and parlance in this is fabulous, the subject matter is excellent, and it also lends itself to innumerable metaphors. I really truly enjoyed this. Your writing talent is impressive. Gretta

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