A Stir of Briny Scents
He mails me the works of art and stories
of his coastal St. Andrews childhood,
days when we lived west of the old city
down streets outside the ancient gateway,
we young adults. I wandered the same
rough streets where he played, daily
went for provisions to small shops,
the baker, the greengrocer, the butcher,
the fishmonger. He hung around a little café,
one I never noticed, picked up odd jobs
from the weary staff, his home
surrounded daily by fishy odors
until the evening’s frying of fish cakes
and haggis puddings filled the air
with the scent of hot oils. Early mornings
the fresh catches arrived from the nearby
fishing villages, Anstruther and Pittenweem.
Sundays found him at mass with his parents
while we spent those morning hours
in the simple chapels of these fisher folk
when not in the ancient Holy Trinity in town.
With each congregation we watched our cold breath,
clumped vapor of our musical exhalations.
In the city, the lofty gray stones
and high pulpits where the beadle latched
the pastor in to impart heavenly wisdom
from above marked that day of rest
as loftier than in the simple chapels
of the sea harvest families.
These places have all changed
over these years, with heating now,
some easy hot water, several touristy hotels …
but the scents and simplicity of the fish-dealing folk
linger with him, an old man now,
and with me, an even older woman,
and the stone walls stand forever smelling
of ancient brine to awaken in us again
a bond of our youth and other days.