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This poem, COMING INTO HARBOUR, is about the death of my maternal grandfather, Alec Macaskill. Unlike the other death poems in the GENGHIS LOTUS POETRY COLLECTION, which flow out of my experience of encountering cancer, this piece of poetry was written back in my teenage years, back in the 1970s, although I did not publish it until I posted it online in 2003.
While I have these days settled on American usage when it comes to spelling, this poem has been left in the New Zealand English in which it was written, hence "harbour" rather than "harbor." Alec Macaskill was born in the north-west of Scotland in a small crofting community called Fanagmore. He was a native speaker of Gaelic, belonging, I think, to the last generation of such people. He was a seafaring man, his career spent mostly on tramp ships, ships which went around the word carrying any cargo there was to carry. His voyages took him pretty much all over the world, including to China and Japan. Spain was another port of call. He went there, on one occasion, because he was runing guns during the Spanish Civil War. During the Second World War, he was in the merchant marine, and was twice in a ship which sank under him, having been torpedoed by the German enemy. Although he could not swim, he survived both these incidents. While my grandfather was not in the military, he participated, nevertheless, in the D-Day invasion, the invasion of Europe in which an Anglo-American coalition took on Hitler's Germany. My grandfather's role on D-Day was to be the skipper of a ship. And the ship of which he was captain was an ammunition ship, one big explosion just waiting to happen. My grandfather lived to a good age and died at home in his bed. So this, then, is a poem about dying in old age, full of years. His wife was, I believe, with him when he died. This poem is part of the Genghis Lotus Poetry Collection, a selection of poems free to read online. Webmaster for this site is poet Hugh Cook, born in Britain, educated in New Zealand, and the author of, amongst other works, the fantasy series Chronicles of an Age of Darkness. |
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It has been days now,
With strangers in the house, Their shadows Changing on the walls, The future fading, and the past Seeking its conclusion. He makes a joke, or questions The progress of the world. His frame is lighter now, His girth diminished, his spine Shortened by his age; His voice is worn, And words beyond speech Trouble in his mind. The shadows darken, And his hands Are quietened by fatigue. He may recall A trip to China, A journey down to Spain, Tramp ships awash with water, Bread and beer, And the wind, Snatching at words, Thickening his voice to thunder. He may remember A landscape twice a generation old, Recall the old canals, the locks and barges, Before the changes and the wars. The sea sings in his skull. Words baffle his ears. The light is dull. Coming into harbour, With darkness within his eyes, He holds her hand — Loathe to leave her. Contours form in the night, And he imagines Lights and voices distant on the sand, And, curious, He dreams of the rivermouth, Sweet water and the shore, And in the morning, the hills, Bright in the marble sunlight. |
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May be photocopied for classroom use |
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