Slippin Awa

by James Sinclair

Don’t du dare turn dee back
hit’ll be da last thing du does
croaked da corbie

Der’s me set afore da fire i da Nort Hoose o Setter
lang lived an spent, baerd streetchin ta me belt.
Dir’s been mony a turnin o da tide
fae we set wir fit apo dry laand at Heylor.
Da owldest boy, first mate apo da clippers,
wir Mary bidin in Weathersta wi a screed o bairns
an Jeemsie still wirkin sheep i da Setter hill,
his Ina keepin hoose an hame,
an me boannie Annie lang since geen ta her maker.

Neebin here, I feel da cowld climbin up me leegs
an da points o me fingers loss aa feelin.
I shout on Ina ta stoke da fire,
to bank up da grate wi paet eftir paet.
Fur aa hits lowe, I canna shak da starvation.

Fitful I slip in an oot o sleep, draemin
A’m stood dere apo da daek o da “Diana.”
Her masts riggit laek new, yarnin awa wi da skipper
an da bosun, sayin hit’s a fine sudderly breeze,
guid sailin wadder an da sails abune blatter i da wind.
Wi dat sam me boannie Annie comes oot o da focsle
as fine a  smile as A’m seen lichtin up her face
an her blue een sheenin, sayin…
“ Come du Jeemie, hit’s time du slippit da ropes.”