On 30 November 1977, on the feast of St Andrew, patron saint of her native Scotland, my dear mother passed away after a long battle with cancer. The local priest had administered the last rites some time previously. Although she had seemed barely conscious, I could see her lips moving slightly after he had invited her to join him in saying one ''Hail Mary'' . She received Holy Communion and she seemed then to be very much at peace. The priest, a serious, taciturn but tender-hearted man, noted that this was often the case.
Three poems
I was living in Cambridge during this sad time in 1977. For no particular reason that I can recall, I felt prompted to make the train journey across country to pay a visit to my mother in north Warwickshire. I prepared the following poem en route, not knowing that my mother would depart this world only a matter of days after my arrival. She was sitting near the fireside when I arrived, nursing a hot water bottle. I read my poem to her and I could see that she was listening intently. When I had finished, she said: 'Well, how lovely!' She then retired to her bedroom and never left her bed again before her death some days later.
Kirsty bheag is the Scots Gaelic for 'little Kirsty'. She was called 'little' to distinguish her from her mother, who was also called Kirsty. I completed the pen and ink drawing of the boat (21cm x 21cm) several years later and named it 'Kirsty' in honour of my mother. RIP.
Kirsty Bheag
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| Kirsty. PB |
Alone sate she in soft and muted shade,
A fairy child of woodland ferns and flowers,
A slender sylph from Spring's most sacred glade,
A smiling sprite of silent, scented bowers.
Her careless hair was gold as sun-gold corn,
In breeze-blessed streams and tresses lightly flowing;
Her eyes were the smiling blue of a sky-blue morn,
Her cheeks with cheerest roses ever-glowing.
Withal a shape so supple, slim and svelte
As like a willow-sapling's lithely grace;
A light and happy spirit therein dwelt,
Whose dancing smiles did play upon her face.
Upon her lap an open book she lay,
Whose lines she scanned with fond and eager gaze;
Then 'loud the alien words she 'gan to say,
In heart to grave for all her mortal days.
Alone sate she, this darling Highland child,
In woods, in fields, by many a mountain stream;
But now in time long-lived to old age mild,
Of these her girlhood joys she doth but dream.
Envoi
Learn friends, this fairest She, she is no other
Than my own dear, beloved mother.
© PB 1977
My mother was to suffer enormously from cancer before she died on the 30th November. As someone born in the Scottish Highlands, it was altogether fitting that she should have passed on the Feast of St Andrew. I wrote 'Curse' mindful of the echoing metre used by the witches in the "Scottish play."
Curse
Burn in Brimni's blazing bane,
Die in cruel and crazing pane!
Slowly burning, slowly maiming,
Never easing, never resting,
Bitter raw with deadly fest'ring;
Vicious jaws within thee gnawing,
Biting, ripping, tearing, savage,
These thy entrails hotly ravage.
Burn in Brimni's blazing bane,
Die in cruel and crazing pain!
© PB 1977
In this same year, my mother had already lost her first-born son (aged 44) and her favourite brother. This triple loss inspired the following lines.
This Weeping Year
This weeping year,
This year of ache and pain;
This heart-sore year,
This year with sorrow stain'd.
O woeful year,
Unweary of thy ever-wearing woes;
Black-visaged year,
Unyielding midst thy yield of deadly throes.
The Fates, they three,
This fated year of three,
Death-fated three
And dealt three fatally.
© PB 1977
