Auld Maggie, Game’s Loup (1962)


Tamp the baccy down-head of the cob pipe-

get it lit, hand shielding.

 

Screw her eyes wi the squall

stood there between the front door and

her oak chair three feet away

 

Black dress

white bib

Puritan.

 

Weathered

skin red

indian

 

Her man the chandler gone

old nets heaped on the beach

Wet rigging, crates.

 

Me at three, with new thoughts, in shorts, gets a smile.

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