Mary’s Hill

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sonless Gairbraid Laird once lived
by bonny Kelvinside.
He had a daughter young and fair
and she was full of pride,
for on his lands there stood a hill,
the highest point in sight,
so Mary Hill the girl became,
those acres hers by right-o,
rich acres hers by right.

Many a day she climbed the slope,
looking from side to side.
Before, behind, beneath her feet
her lands were green and wide.
She married young to Graham’s son,
who once a slave had been,
and grew to love her ‘venture man,
the handsomest she’d seen-o,
most handsome, she had seen.

They worked the land her father owned,
digging deep for coal,
but it was wet and slaggy stuff;
profit was their goal.
Their gamble failed and money lost
added to her woe,
so Mary climbed the family hill
to soothe the bitter blow-o,
to heal the bitter blow.

She looked north and she looked south,
she looked both east and west;
of all the green land stretched before
she loved her own lands best.
Sad and sore, she birthed two girls;
no son was ever born
as was the Blessed Mary’s child
upon a blessed morn-o,
upon that blessed morn.

But Mary hid her griefs away,
held steady to her breath,
for her father willed her his estate
when he was close to death.
She rallied soon when she heard
a rumour out of hand -
a Forth and Clyde Canal proposed
to cross, in part, her land-o,
to pass across her land.

Plans showed the need for a viaduct
to span the River Kelvin
and public funds much land would leave
for her to toil and delve in.
Mary Hill and her husband Rob
took the compensation
because the canny two, well pleased,
could bolster up their station-o,
would bolster up their station.

And so it was and so it did:
a village soon sprang there
upon the banks of the new canal
with its locks and water fair.
It wasn’t long before trades grew
on the outskirts of the build,
boats made, glass blown and iron works,
wood neatly sawn and milled-o,
wood crisply sawn and milled.

So Mary climbed her hill once more,
she looked down south and near
and saw her lands made gainful for
both her daughters dear.
The Grahams pledged more land to aid
the township’s growth. “It will
from city’s end to bridge be called
the town of Mary Hill-o,
our town of Mary Hill.”

And so it was and so it is,
though borough now it be,
while Mary’s hill stands higher yet
with water in its lee-o,
more water in its lee.

Anne Declined

 

The day was numb at her slow death.

I mourned, my eyes stitched red,

followed our church law

to her low grave.

Incense hung outside my door.

I could not swing on my father's coats.

Nurse gathered and sat above my height,

drew faith as tight as my laced bodice,

thin lungs pinched in this near room.

I grew gossip, intrigued

where marriage matched lands.

Threads were kin in my crewel-work,

framed a firm house,

planned counts for my bed.

Weddings were sudden in fashion.

My own quickened in court,

ten young days to meet him,

our hands tied with rings,

ribbons, revels, contracts.

My fine sheets were creased

a night when the looks began.

A frame to bear great England.

Three months to see the needle set,

nine to count heads for new designs.

I sickened of statecraft and sewing,

stitch-work by day, laid-work by night,

caught, free, the air in the gardens.

I grew lean with longings.

That first birth was death,

death in my eyes for eighteen years.

Health slipped away in blood,

I was carried from childbed,

sickbed, deathbed, funerals.

The house walls haunt me still.

I sat and coped with my bright silks,

stripped thread from each completed work

while children and kings went down.

It tired me. I was not taught

to pick apart the seams

that other years had made.

Faith and all those deaths led me on,

my crown handed back by corpses.

No achievement in my succession,

I could not sew in Council.

On its advice I changed

the colours worked at home,

twined strands dull as the pitch

of my far wars. No clash here.

Where no heirs were I shook out

cloth from time to time,

watched ministers fall with the dust.

Sweepers of floors were secret then.

On days I walked, my skirts

caught dirt and stayed corrupt

for years. I did not ask for this.

I left my used clothes to my maid.

English hausfrau, they call me,

potters about her palace,

crafts children for crowns.

What time did I have for

commons or kings beyond the door?

All sowings were heirs, so

seventeen babies I bore and buried.

None were immaculate births;

tombs garnered the years

I had to give. I'm worn down

to the bed to birth my death.

No loss now. My late Council,        

on the warp of my worked chairs,

will state that I did succeed.

 

Him Indoors

 

No life other than him.

Slipped-aside eyes,

nose peaked, slit mouth,

a mite of jowl wobble

keeping it simple,

the fussed economy

before dissolution.

And those clothes. Fur,

broadcloth up to the chin,

cocky codpiece unflaunted,

though the ring is bling,

the book bedizened - minor

shows below that lit face

in sunshine time.

And it shone. Brewer’s

get from Putney sticks

slid King’s-side, mercenary,

merchant, law, all passed,

dodging a death or two,

money-man mouth-clever

as slippage upward went.

But the shine’s from out

on the dim of the in,

him of the Jewel House

to gathering abbeys,

quick to execute

while robed dark

downwards.
 

Reflections

 

This may have been a king’s mirror,

while only obsidian polished to a shine.

Not powerful locally, did he big

himself up with a mini-me, the shrine

a walk away on a Sun God day

to favour the stay of his long bloodline,

the unsettling mask cupped in his hands,

its dark stone flecked with white,

while the people clapped a way into ritual

through the long bright of his own light

he not responding to human sound,

only he perpetual by right,

so the deep-lipped guise should inform us?

Quite. Or no. We cannot know,

whichever world centre or direction

we long regard. What’s on show

now are bee masks, V.’s mask, death masks,

and those fragile bits we labour to sew.