Cold Lochs

Her hair’s tied in ribbons.

Uncle’s skipped the betting shop to say a prayer.

Brother’s in his wedding shirt, top button missing now.

On the projector screen there’s a girl in black and white, hair tied up in ribbons. She hasn’t met the sea yet.

On the way home, the wind whips up my skirt. I drink tea from polystyrene and cling to wet railings. Mist rolls in from the west, blue milk, nothing visible – until you.

You, on the promenade, where Grandpa strolled in a tweed suit and you spun, curls lifting on the sea-wind. When you turned back he was gone, and you were feeding mashed potato to three babies. Aeroplane landing. Warm paste under your fingernail, on your nylon skirt.

They named you Eve. You weren’t the first woman, only ma’s eldest girl.

Brown curls, pinned tight.
Eyes holding the cold lochs.

Where you skinny-dipped as a child.
Where you searched for monsters with your sisters.

Bloody hell, let me go now, you said.

Gabh fois, a ghràidh.

But three days passed, and you kept breathing.

Stubborn world.
Still, you’d beat it.

In the early hours, Brechin soaked in fog,
you spun once more and found your daughters’ eyes catching yours –

cold lochs,
meeting love.

You dive into them.

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