The wind from seaward
moves
a berthed forest
of denuded trees
rooted
in wherry keels.
On the quays
human industry
drives
the profit motive
to clear
silver harvests from the sea
delivered
daily
and in due season.
Women
dip scaled arms
into sequined farlings
to
eviscerate
full matties
destined
for Danzig
and St Petersburg.
Black-serged fishermen
flat-capped skippers
blue-suited salesmen
bowl-hatted curers
fat-arsed carters
boxy-bosomed gutters
foul-mouthed gaffers
finnicky coopers
shelly-eyed cadgers
and
fat-lipped merchants
mouthing thanks
for
the Truck Act.
Here
herring was king.

Mute reminders -
though idle
yet here

Are the tools of the trade
activating
the memory genes
of those
whose forebears
drowned in herring,
daily
and for a hard living,
Sights
sounds and smells
still
emanate from silent wood
to raise
the ghosts of the past,
to reinforce
the performance
of history
Here
are
no named memorials.
Artefacts,
worn by gnarled skin,
annointed
with oil and salt
exude
those former times.
Then;
Wick warked weel.

WHALIGOE HARBOUR

Madness
or
sheer necessity
decreed the need
for flagstone steps
to hug the cliff breast
and suckle
the means
for survival.
On womens’ backs
nets
barked and mended
trudged
step by step
down to lug-sailed yawls.
On womens’ backs;
creels
heavy with silver
climbed
step by step
up to the curing.
Here
there was no time
for finesse.

Life,
such as it was,
went by
in a slow counting of souls
and
a constant wearing
of 333 steps.
Sysiphus
had it easier