Henry Shukman
Thursday
Their furs are wet through from the wavetops
that chuck themselves at the gunwales.
Bare elbows and shins drip as the men row
the ship from shore to shore across coalgrey brine.
A man at the mast on a wet leather seat
decides to give them a swig of beer,
then schnapps to warm them on the cold day.
He doesn’t like his mission – to fetch
the unwilling bride, the red-haired Northumbrian.
The ship rocks over the black waves.
Mid-morning, the world has been light for two hours.
At dawn a moment of freshness came
when the rain stopped and the sun almost showed –
pale sky on the horizon the colour of skin
(above that the lid of clouds waiting to close).
Now the seas are building, the rain is back.
Thursday: they’ll be in Hornsby by night.
If the sky were clear he’d see land now,
the pebble beach of the long shore. He feels
the landfall south of true, tells the helm to tweak it.
Tomorrow they’ll roast a hog and drink.
But today is Thursday, day of puddles and mud,
damp school-satchels heavy with homework,
day when work weighs most, when the world
is a business of working to ingest, to keep from dying,
when the question why is bereft of any answer.
that chuck themselves at the gunwales.
Bare elbows and shins drip as the men row
the ship from shore to shore across coalgrey brine.
A man at the mast on a wet leather seat
decides to give them a swig of beer,
then schnapps to warm them on the cold day.
He doesn’t like his mission – to fetch
the unwilling bride, the red-haired Northumbrian.
The ship rocks over the black waves.
Mid-morning, the world has been light for two hours.
At dawn a moment of freshness came
when the rain stopped and the sun almost showed –
pale sky on the horizon the colour of skin
(above that the lid of clouds waiting to close).
Now the seas are building, the rain is back.
Thursday: they’ll be in Hornsby by night.
If the sky were clear he’d see land now,
the pebble beach of the long shore. He feels
the landfall south of true, tells the helm to tweak it.
Tomorrow they’ll roast a hog and drink.
But today is Thursday, day of puddles and mud,
damp school-satchels heavy with homework,
day when work weighs most, when the world
is a business of working to ingest, to keep from dying,
when the question why is bereft of any answer.
Henry Shukman won the Arvon Prize in 2000 and the Aldeburgh Festival Prize in 2002. His first collection, In Dr No’s Garden (Cape 2002), was shortlisted fir the Forward Prize.
Page(s) 7
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