Mellishon

by James Sinclair

Set atap da gaet post
he leaned his black sails i da breeze
an birled up itill da cloods

We cam fast i da ee o da baess,
catched up i da spiral spoolin wis doon.
Da gless as low as he’d seen,
wir skipper wrestled da spokes o dat wheel,
a man fechtin lonabrak an spondrift.
Muckle lumps brook apo aa fower quarters,
dingin wis aboot laek a cork.
Masts bucklin afore da gale, fit ta snap,
wi da sails reefed ticht ta da spars,
da Jib an a sma sail aft ta steer wis bye.
We pitched hiedicraa in ta a waa o waater,
dat A’m sure guid richt trowe wis
We ran fae port ta starboard,
checkin dat aathing wis lashed ticht
an mannin da pumps fae first licht ta mirk,
day eftir day hammered dis wey an dat.
I listened ta wir Anne whisper itill me lug
“ Hadd dee course my boy, du’ll be fine. “
An at last apo da moarnin o da fourth day
a watery sun brook trowe,
an da dark ean ran oot o breath.