Have ye not known the Whaleshead Tale?
.
Aye… a black awful time it was,
when a raging sea, wroth with hunger,
stole a hunner or more a sad-sorry-souls
and sent ‘um down, a-feared and 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 moanin’
like a fair bonnie woman in moil,
strokin’ the senses daft, this portend
black of billowin’ clouds, bearing
down on the shore bitter with
a sharp-set iciness that bit
fiercely at the skin like
the Teeth ‘a 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 sheer 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 compellin’ 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,” said those aloof and smug at a distance …
.
There was nar’ measure ‘a time;
day and night fluxing together in a
black swirl of clouds and thunderous
mayhem, and all the while the tempest
broodin’ barmy on the hapless towns 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 bustin’
the mizzen from many a sea-worthy vessel;
most of ‘um breached, or broke-up like kindlin’,
and most all the God fearin’ townsfolk
beggin’ 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 ever forget those souls that passed on…
.
© richard lloyd cederberg
2017
      richardlloydcederberg.com