Home

SO long had I travelled the lonely road,

Though, now and again, a wayfairing friend

Walked shoulder to shoulder, and lightened the load,

I often would think to myself as I strode,

No comrade will journey with you to the end.

And it seemed to me, as the days went past,

And I gossiped with cronies, or brooded alone,

By wayside fires, that my fortune was cast

To sojourn by other men's hearths to the last,

And never to come to my own hearthstone.

The lonely road no longer I roam.

We met, and were one in the heart's desire.

Together we came, through the wintry gloam,

To the little old house by the cross-ways, home;

And crossed the threshold, and kindled the fire.

Wilfred Gibson

The Crane

THE biggest crane on earth, it lifts

Two hundred ton more easily

Than I can lift my heavy head:

And when it swings, the whole world shifts,

Or so, at least, it seems to me,

As, day and night, adream I lie

Upon my crippled back in bed,

And watch it against the sky.

My mother, hunching in her chair,

Day-long, and stitching trousers there--

At three-and-three the dozen pair . . .

She'd sit all night, and stitch for me,

Her son, if I could only wear . . .

She never lifts her eyes to see

The big crane swinging through the air.

But though she has no time to talk,

She always cleans the window-pane,

That I may see it clear and plain:

And as I watch it move, I walk

Who never walked in all my days . . .

And often, as I dream agaze,

I'm up and out, and it is I

Who swing the crane across the sky.

Right up above the wharf I stand,

And touch a lever with my hand,

To lift a bunch of girders high,

A truck of coal, a field of grain

In sacks, a bundle of big trees,

Or beasts, too frightened in my grip

To wonder at their skiey trip:

And then I let the long arm dip

Without a hitch, without a slip,

To set them safely in the ship

That waits to take them overseas.

My mother little dreams it's I,

Up there, tiny as a fly,

Who stand above the biggest crane,

And swing the ship-loads through the sky;

While she sits, hunching in her chair,

Day-long, and stitching trousers there--

At three-and-three the dozen pair.

And sometimes when it turns me dizzy,

I lie and watch her, ever busy;

And wonder at a lot of things

I never speak to her about:

I wonder why she never sings

Like other people on the stair . . .

And why, whenever she goes out

Upon a windy day, the air

Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright . . .

And if the colour of her hair

Was brown like mine, or always white . . .

And why, when through the noise of feet

Of people passing in the street,

She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat,

She always starts up in her chair,

And looks before her with strange stare,

Yet seeing nothing anywhere:

Though right before her, through the sky,

The biggest crane goes swinging by.

But it's a lucky day and rare

When she's the time to talk with me . . .

Though, only yesterday, when night

Shut out, at last, the crane from sight . . .

She, in her bed, and thinking I

Was sleeping -- though I watch the sky,

At times, till it is morning light,

And ships are waiting to unload--

I heard her murmur drowsily:

"The pit-pattering of feet,

All night, along the moonlit road . . .

A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . .

The bracken's deep and soft and dry . . .

And safe and snug, and no one near . . .

The little burn sings low and sweet,

The little burn sings shrill and clear . . .

And loud all night the cock-grouse talks . . .

There's naught in heaven or earth to fear . . .

The pit-pat-pattering of feet . . .

A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . ."

And then she started up in bead:

I felt her staring, as she said:

"I wonder if he ever hears

The pit-pat-pattering of sheep,

Or smells the broken bracke stalks . . .

While she is lying sound asleep

Beside him . . . after all these years --

Just ninteen years, this very night --

Remembering? . . . and now, his son,

A man . . . and never stood upright!"

And then I heard a sound of tears;

But dared not speak, or let her know

I'd caught a single whisper, though

I wondered long what she had done

That she should hear the pattering feet:

And when those queer words in the night

Had fretted me half-dead with fright,

And set my throbbing head abeat . . .

Out of the darkness, suddenly,

The crane's long arm swung over me,

Among the stars, high overhead . . .

And then it dipped, and clutched my bed:

And I had not a breath to cry,

Before it swung me through the sky,

Above the sleeping city high,

Where blinding stars went blazing by . . .

My mother, hunching in her chair,

Day-long, and stitching trousers there,

At three-and-three the dozen pair,

With quiet eyes and smooth white hair . . .

You'd little think a yelp or bleat

Could start her; or that she was weeping

So sorely, when she thought me sleeping.

She never tells me why she fears

The pit-pat-pattering of feet

All night along the moonlight road . . .

Or what's the wrong that she has done . . .

I wonder if 't would bring her tears,

If she could know that I, her son--

A man, who never stood upright,

But all the livelong day must lie,

And watch, beyond the window-pane

The swaying of the biggest crane--

That I, within its clutch, last night,

Went whirling through the starry sky.

Wilfred Gibson

The Blind Rower

AND since he rowed his father home,

His hand has never touched an oar.

All day he wanders on the shore,

And hearkens to the swishing foam.

Though blind from birth, he still could row

As well as any lad with sight;

And knew strange things that none may know

Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve

To sink the lobster-pots at sea,

The sun was crimson in the sky;

And not a breath was in the sky;

The brooding, thunder-laden sky,

That, heavily and wearily,

Weighed down upon the waveless sea

That scarcely seamed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then

The father gave the word for home:

He took the tiller in his hand,

And, in hi s heart already home,

He brought her nose round towards the land,

To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke,

Nor stirred again:

A sudden stroke,

And he lay dead,

With staring eyes, and lips off lead.

The son rowed on, and nothing feared:

And sometimes, merrily,

He lifted up his voice, and sang,

Both high and low,

And loud and sweet:

For he was ever gay at sea,

And ever glad to row,

And rowed as only blind men row:

And little did the blind lad know

That death was at his feet:

For still he thought his father steered;

Nor knew that he was all alone

With death upon the open sea.

So merrily, he rowed, and sang:

And, strangely on the silence rang

That lonely melody,

As, through the livid, brooding gloam,

By rock and reef, he rowed for home--

The blind man rowed the dead man home.

But, as they neared the shore,

He rested on his oar:

And, wondering that his father kept

So very quiet in the stern,

He laughed, and asked him if he slept;

And vowed he heard him snore just now.

Though, when his father spoke no word,

A sudden fear upon him came:

And, crying on his father's name,

With flinching heart, he heard

The water lapping on the shore;

And all his blood ran cold, to feel

The shingle grate beneath the keel:

And stretching over towards the stern,

His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But help was near at hand;

And safe he came to land:

Though none has ever known

How he rowed in, alone,

And never touched a reef.

Some say they saw the dead man steer--

The dead man steer the blind man home--

Though, when they found him dead,

His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro,

In every sort of weather,

The blind lad wanders on the shore,

And hearkens to the foam.

His hand has never touched an oar,

Since they came home together--

The blind, who rowed his father home--

The dear, who steered his blind son home.

Wilfred Gibson

The Dancing Seal

WHEN we were building Skua Light--

The first men who had lived a night

Upon that deep-sea Isle--

As soon as chisel touched the stone,

The friendly seals would come ashore;

And sit and watch us all the while,

As though they'd not seen men before;

And so, poor beasts, had never known

Men had the heart to do them harm.

They'd little cause to feel alarm

With us, for we were glad to find

Some friendliness in that strange sea;

Only too pleaed to let them be

And sit as long as they'd a mind

To watch us: for their eyes were kind

Like women's eyes, it seemed to me.

So, hour on hour, they sat: I think

They liked to hear the chisels clink:

And when the boy sang loud and clear,

They scrambled closer in to hear;

And if he whistled sweet and shrill,

The queer beasts shuffled nearer still:

But every sleek and sheeny skin

Was mad to hear his violin.

When, work all over for the day,

He'd take his fiddle down and play

His merry tunes beside the sea,

Their eyes grew brighter and more bright,

And burned and twinkled merrily:

And as I watched them one still night,

And saw their eager sparkling eyes,

I felt those lively seals would rise

Some shiny night ere he could know,

And dance about him, heel and toe,

Unto the fiddle's headdy tune.

And at the rising of the moon,

Half-daft, I took my stand before

A young seal lying on the shore;

And called on her to dance with me.

And it seemed hardly strange when she

Stood up before me suddenly,

And shed her black and sheeny skin;

And smiled, all eager to begin . . .

And I was dancing, heel and toe,

With a young maiden, white as snow,

Unto a crazy violin.

We danced beneath the dancing moon

All night, beside the dancing sea,

With tripping toes and skipping heels:

And all about us friendly seals

Like Christian folk were dancing reels

Unto the fiddle's endless tune

That kept on spinning merrily

As though it never meant to stop.

And never once the snow-white maid

A moment stayed

To take a breath,

Though I was fit to drop:

And while those wild eyes challenged me,

I knew as well as well could be

I must keep step with that young girl,

Though we should dance to death.

Then with a skirl

The fiddle broke:

The moon went out:

The sea stopped dead:

And, in a twinkling, all the rout

Of dancing folk had fled . . .

And in the chill bleak dawn I woke

Upon the naked rock, alone.

They've brought me far from Skua Isle . . .

I laugh to think they do not know

That as, all day I chip the stone,

Among my fellows here inland,

I smell the sea-wrack on the shore . . .

And see her snowy-tossing hand,

And meet again her merry smile . . .

And dream I'm dancing all the while,

I'm dancing ever, heel and toe,

With a seal-maiden, white as snow,

On that moonshiny Island-strand,

For ever and for evermore.

Wilfred Gibson

The Slag

AMONG bleak hills of mounded slag they walked,

'Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag

O'er burdened by the belching smoke, and lie

Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank,

Till both felt youth within them fail and flag--

Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag

A fluttering moment through the murky sky

Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank

Again beneath the iron bell close-bound--

And it was all that they could do to drag

Themselves along 'neath that dead-weight of smoke,

Over the cinder-blasted barren ground.

Though fitfully and fretfully she talked,

He never turned his eyes to her or spoke:

And as he slouched with her along the track

That skirted a stupendous, lowering mound,

With listless eyes, and o'er-strained sinews slack,

She bit a petted, puckered lip, and frowned

To think she ever should be walking out

With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout,

As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag.

On the edge, and over-wrought by the crampt day

Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine,

It seemed to her a girl of seventeen

Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking--

Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking

Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay--

Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag

Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim,

Till all her eager youth should waste away.

Yet, even as she looked askance at him--

Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed--

She dimly knew of depths she could not sound

In this strong lover, silent at her side:

And, once again, her heart was touched with pride

To think that he was hers, this strapping lad--

Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad . . .

His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied--

All hers alone, and more than all she had

In all the world to her . . . and yet, so grave!

If he would only show that he was glad

To be with her -- a gleam, a spark of fire,

A spurt of flame to shoot into the night,

A moment through the murky heavens to wave

An eager beacon of enkindling light

In answer to her young heart's quick desire!

Yet, though he walked with dreaming eyes agaze,

As, deep within a mound of slag, a core

Of unseen fire may smoulder many days,

Till suddenly the whole heap burn ablaze,

That seemed, but now, dead cinder, grey and cold,

Life smouldered in his heart. The fire he fed

Day-long in the tall furnace just ahead

From that frail gallery hung against the sky

Had burned through all his being, till the ore

Glowed in him. Though no surface stream of gold,

Quick-molten slag of speech was his to spill

Unceasingly, the burning metal still

Seethed in him, from the broken furnace-side

To burst at any moment in a tide

Of white-hot molten iron o'er the mould . . .

But still he spoke no word as they strolled on

Into the early-gathering Winter night:

And, as she watched the leaping furnace-light,

She had no thought of smouldering fires unseen . . .

The daylong clattering whirr of her machine

Hummed in her ears again -- the straining thread

And stabbing needle through her head--

Until the last dull gleam of day was gone . . .

When, all at once, upon the right,

A crackling crash, a blinding flare . . .

A shower of cinders through the air . . .

A grind of blocks of slag aslide . . .

And, far above them, in the night,

The looming heap had opened wide

Above a fiery, gaping pit . . .

And, startled and aghast at it,

With clasping hands they stood astare,

And gazed upon the awful glare:

And, as she felt him clutch her hand,

She seemed to know her heart's desire

For evermore with him to stand

In that enkindling blaze of fire . . .

When, suddenly, he left her side;

And started scrambling up the heap:

And looking up, with stifled cry,

She saw, against the glowing sky,

Almost upon the pit's red brink,

A little lad, stock-still with fright

Before the blazing pit of dread

Agape before him in the night,

Where, playing castles on the height

Since noon, he'd fallen, spent, asleep

And dreaming he was home in bed . . .

With brain afire, too strained to think,

She watched her lover climb and leap

From jag to jag of broken slag . . .

And still he only seemed to creep . . .

She felt that he would never reach

That little lad, though he should climb

Until the very end of time . . .

And, as she looked, the burning breach

Gaped suddenly more wide . . .

The slag again began to slide

And crash into the pit,

Until the dazed lad's feet

Stood on the edge of it.

She saw him reel and fall . . .

And thought him done for . . . then

Her lover, brave and tall,

Against the glare and heat,

A very fire-bright god of men!

He stooped, and now she knew the lad

Was safe with Robert, after all.

And while she watched, a throng of folk

Attracted by the crash and flare,

Had gathered round, though no one spoke;

But all stood terror-stricken there,

With lifted eyes and indrawn breath,

Until a lad was snatched from death

Upon the very pit's edge, when,

As Robert picked him up, and turned,

A sigh ran through the crowd; and fear

Gave place to joy, as cheer on cheer

Sang through the kindled air . . .

But still she never uttered word,

As though she neither saw nor heard;

Till as, at last, her lad drew near,

She saw him bend with tender care

Over the sobbing child who lay

Safe in his arms, and hug him tight

Against his breast -- his brow alight

With eager, loving eyes that burned

In his transfigured face aflame . . .

And even when the parents came

It almost seemed that he was loth

To yield them up their little son;

As though the lad were his by right

Of rescue, from the pit's edge won.

Then, as his eyes met hers, she felt

An answering thrill of tenderness

Run, quickening, through her breast; and both

Stood quivering there, with envious eyes,

And stricken with a strange distress,

As quickly homeward through the night

The happy parents bore their boy . . .

And then, about her reeling bright,

The whole night seemed to her to melt

In one fierce, fiery flood of joy.

Wilfred Gibson