Fisherman's Bride
Around us a muted din
Of fiddles and feet,
Circlings of bread and ale.
This room we are in
At the seaward side, is still.
I turn a cold sheet.
Midnight.
The shoal drifts
Like a host of souls unborn, along the shore.
The tide sets from the west.
His salt hand shifts
From tumult of thigh and breast
To the hard curve of an oar.
George MacKay Brown 1921-1996
