from STORM PETREL
He departed to raise the Jurassic.
The hill-wind on my father’s face, before weeks
aboard the rig. North of the peak
where the road would end, he spent Sunday
trudging to the Nevis cairn.
The pilot made him walk a line.
‘Drysuit? Lifejacket?’
– ‘Check.’
‘Reddick?’
– ‘Ready!’
He watched cities shrinking:
Stonehaven, Peterhead,
Aberdeenshire’s rain-grey granites.
Over the waves, the blade of Shetland.
They named the oil-platforms
for birds: Merlin, Osprey, Brent.
He stepped onto the platform, for
the two-week static voyage.
Storm petrel, Cape Verde coast
So seabound, she stumbled on land –
tough light approaching, though
days were no longer.
Dust hazing the air, dust
in the petrel’s throat and feathers;
sand clouding the sea where she dived.
By the rock-caves, fishermen with their catch
of conches sat on hot stones,
cracking the chambers of shells.
The Sahara had flown to
sea on the Harmattan –
the conch-fishers scarved
their eyes to watch the petrels
patter wings and feet on waves,
stepping north on water.
Dunlin A platform
The rig-lights fiery on choppy breakers.
In his bunk, sardine-canned
with four dorm-mates,
my father lay restive under a thin blanket.
Noise jackhammered everyone’s eardrums –
drilled through cabins,
girders. Dad felt the weather turn.
The men perched
over an ocean above
a deeper ocean of sweet, black oil.
The rig boomed like a petrol tanker,
its hull pitching over the North Atlantic.
‘Storm Petrel’ is forthcoming in Burning Season. It was first published in Ambit and was highly commended in the 2020 Forward Prizes.
