Waterbabes Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Jean Sim, a clippie, dressed in navy-blue,
Shouldered her punch as if it was a gun,
Her netted hair caught tightly in a bun.

She'd lift her pocket flap, tap out a fag,
Take a long drag, quick-sip a mug of tea,
Never missed the ashtray.
Snibbed her smoke, was thrifty,
Always looked the other side of fifty.

One year she took her leave of Christmas cheer
Trussed in a belted coat, with red beret
And matching scarf and gloves from Aunty Joan,
Zipped up her fur lined boats (the frost cut to the bone) ,
Left by the back door, cutting across the fields.

Finding the note too late, her father sought her,
A railway worker, shouting his daughter's
Name across the snow.

Sharp frost that held the furrows in a vice
Warned that minds too, can chill and turn to ice.
Storm brewing darkly over the woods,
The narrow burn was raging,
Thinking itself a torrent, thinking itself a Tiber -
Pretentious, piddling puddle, three feet deep,
Where Jean stepped in and laid her down to sleep.

For weeks she stalked my dreams, hands on lap,
Her clippie's uniform immaculate,
The raging burn roaring across her face,
Unreachable by censure or disgrace.
Her father's knuckles wrung his tweed cap raw.

One summer the smiling river pulled me down,
And played with me as if I'd been a toy.
No kindly tree stretched down its boughs to save,
Forget-me-nots watched blankly from the waves;
I could have been a stone thrown in by boys.
Till, struggling, I broke free.

I love to watch the river, find it haunting
Its moods and sudden eddies so enchanting;
I dabble with it, toe-dip, do not enter
I am no Jean, could never go dead centre.