loss – Page 4 – Hues of Hankinson

The Perfect Storm…reflections on the storm of 1953.

It was England’s worst natural disaster of the twentieth century. A combination of a winter windstorm and high spring tides brought disaster and flooding to Scotland, England, the Netherlands, and Belgium. Between January 31 and February 1st a storm tide in the North Sea raised the water level by as much as 5.6metres above sea level in parts of the East coast. There was catastrophic flooding on a massive scale and huge loss of life.

In the Netherlands there were approx 1836 deaths, In England in the east coast counties of Lincolnshire, Suffolk, Essex 307 lives were lost, a further 19 in Scotland and 28 people lost their lives in the Flanders region of Belgium. A further 230 people lost their lives at sea, on small craft, fishing vessels and with the sinking of the MV Princess Victoria. Many of those on shore were drowned in their beds as they slept. Thousands of people were made homeless.

The entire crew of 13 from the fishing trawler the Michael Griffith from Fleetwood were lost to the storm along with two crew from the Islay rescue lifeboat. They had set sail on the Thursday from Fleetwood under skipper Charles Singleton with the youngest crewmember being the deckhand George Palin. The boat vanished south of Barra Head in the early hours of Saturday morning following a stark radio message in morse- “Full of water – no steam – helpless”. Eleven women were widowed and 20 children were left fatherless.

The car ferry MV Princess Victoria, travelling from Stranraer to Larne was also lost of Saturday 31st January. Just 90 minutes after she left Stranraer a wave burst through the stern doors and despite all efforts the car decks were flooded. There were 44 survivors but 133 others perished. Not a single woman or child survived the disaster. They had all been put together in one lifeboat and it was lifted by a wave and smashed against the hull of the ship and they were all lost to the water. Portpatrick, Donaghadee and Cloughy lifeboats all made attempts to locate and help rescue those aboard. The Donaghadee lifeboat, the Sir Samuel Kelly joined the frantic search for survivors after the ship went down finally at approx 13.58 with her Captain still bravely at the helm. Its crew eventually plucked 33 men to safety. Bravery medals were awarded to many for their valiant rescue efforts that day.

This still remains one of the most little-known tragedies of the twentieth century. Thank you dad for telling me about it.

The featured image is from Wikimedia and is in the public domain- By Wrecksite (www.wrecksite.eu) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

the other image is the memorial at Portpatrick again in wikimedia- andy [CC BY-SA 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Guardian, the storm in pictures

https://youtu.be/vARjm3yHKzY

The west wind…

I heard a whisper across the water

It told of a world where there were wonderous opportunities and all were welcome

Where freedom was valued and compassion was at the core of civilised communities.

A whisper carried by a westerly wind washing the waves across the sand-banks

Calling me home, I longed to drift with it, I yearned for its whisper to be true

For it to wrap me in its comforting promises and relieve me from the pain and suffering of the moment in which I live.

Day 15 Napowrimo

I don’t know if this poem is finished….perhaps it is an unfinished poem.

In the space between……

I heard your voice

You sounded distant, a far cry in a deserted hall

Somewhere beyond the silent space that I occupy.

You are on the tip of my tongue

A familiar sound, an enunciated vowel

More than a cursory utterance of love.

In my dreams my arms reach out to embrace you.

I catch a glimpse of you as the shadows recede and the sun filters in through the shutters

But you have already left, and all I have is the empty space that you once occupied.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

For Day 14 of napowrimo.

With love to all. May you have peace in your hearts and compassion in your soul.

Man in the doorway…

Deadbeat

Bereft- bile rising on a tide of crimson tears

Soul surrendered.

Forget the humdrum faces of the faithful

Languish in the liminality of loss that lengthens the hours of every day since.

Bury your head. Bury your heart.

That which hath gone and cannot be gathered

For the past is passed, and whilst not to be forgotten cannot pulse again with life

Dust beckons.

Hooded, labelled, lost on the fringe

Of a world that ceased to care, no compassion.

Deadbeat.

This isn’t my usual style and it is a poem for the man in the doorway many months ago, perhaps it is his back-story. It is for Napowrimo day 13.

This is for open link night with d’Verse.

The legacy.

One day this will all be yours my son

When my bones are wearied and my work is done

Until that day I will share with thee

All my wordly goods and hospitality.

I looked across the garden lawn

Each rock and boulder, each tree and flower forlorn

Planted and placed by this loving pair

With whom I had been fortunate my life to share.

She had passed away in early Spring

A moonless night she earned her wings

His saddened eyes then lost their light

She had been his diamond bright.

He carried on though his despair was clear

Determined to spend more time with those he held dear

With his estranged family he made his peace

He shared his stories of the past and his frustrations ceased.

The autumn came the nights were cold

His desire to die took a stronger hold.

The clock stopped at ten past three

For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for Day 9 of Napowrimo

A mother on raising sons.

My first was stillborn,

My cries carried across the fields on the cusp of a winter storm

The snow lay thick on the ground,

I lay like a mewling ewe and cradled her in my arms

Before the long walk home.

There were others, each swelling of my belly a signal of his pervasive masculinity.

Three brothers followed by a changeling child and so we were cast aside forced to live as outcasts

I moved boulders and stones and tilled the soil, back-breaking into the dead of night

A bairn on my back and another one snug as a bug deep inside.

He couldn’t feel my pain.

One by one they all moved on, they wearied at our laborious life

They found themselves new families and took themselves a wife

And I was left behind, old hag with sagging breasts

No milk to nursefeed bairns on winter nights

No place for my wearied bones to rest.

This is for imaginary garden with real toads where we were invited to write in the voice of another.

On mother’s passing.

My mother’s last meal was cornflakes and I wonder did she spill a drop of milk, did she relish every lingering mouthful, did she know somewhere deep inside her soul that this was effectively her last supper.

Flushed and anguished

Pain obliterates, raindrops cascade down the dirty window pane.

One last breath

A sigh before death.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

I haven’t participated in napowrimo before so this is new to me, I used the prompt for day 6. I have participated in Nanowrimo successfully a number of times so I thought it was time for a change.

Beneath the skin- The raw.

Haemorraghing hatred and fear

Poison oozing out through every microscopic pore

Spilling forth with septic spores of mistrust and malevolence.

I know not this place where I find myself.

I wish I had a rose for every time you spoke my name

The world would be a mesmerising memorial to you.

I catch my image in the mirror and see you have left all the hallmarks of your own life and loves upon my face, they are etched deep beneath the skin.

Sometimes I lose myself and see only you.

And I am faceless and forlorn.

I know not this place where I find myself.

There was a summer, a sea breeze,

A silent longing for a solitary moment of the life that was before.

These shores have weathered fierce and tumultuous tides

And now the pain recedes

And I am left awash with grief.

The hollow dreams, the futile hopes, the empty promises.

And I know not this place where I find myself.

This is my offering for d’Verse open link night. The photo is my own, the white rose symbolises new beginnings and also remembrance.

Shadow of our love.

You wore silk

A delicate shade

Ivory

Gold brocade

Your veil feigning innocence

You captured my heart.

Nylon shift

Hides your sagging form

Rings forlorn

Scars are worn

On old withered hands laid bare

Our love lingers on.

This is for MTB at d’Verse where we are using the form Shadorma.

To me the form suggested shadow and I thought about how as we age we still keep our shadow of youth.

Mum’s last letter.

Handwriting didn’t come easily to me, my words tumbled out across the page as fast as my thoughts would carry them but with no time for neatness clarity or punctuation. Laborious lessons trying to perfect a precise clear-cut style between the lines, the endless lines, my sister’s handwriting remains the same as it was in those joined up lessons at school. Mine still resembles ducklings charging towards some azure blue lake with all the joy of momentum, joy and not a care in the world for how it looks to the rest of the world.

Her last letter, heaven only knows why she posted the parcels so early for Christmas, perhaps she knew. Her last act of love. She died on the Sunday half a world away and by Friday I held her last letter in my hand. Her writing cut through the void, the years the tears, the fears.

Precision and care

Her words carefully planted.

Snowdrops cut through snow.