This Weeping Year

In 1977, my mother lost her first-born son and her favourite brother. She died herself at the end of November in the same year.

GB, RM and KB: requiescant in pace

This weeping year,
This year of ache and pain;
This heart-sore year,
This year with sorrow stain'd.

O woeful year,
Unweary of thy ever-wearing woes;
Black-visaged year,
Unyielding midst thy yield of deadly throes.

The Fates, they three,
This fated year of three,
Death-fated three
And dealt three fatally.

© PB 1977


My mother was to suffer enormously from cancer before she died on the 30th November. As someone born in the Scottish Highlands, it was altogether fitting that she should have passed on the Feast of St Andrew. I wrote 'Curse' mindful of the relentless metre used by the witches in the Scottish play.

Curse

Burn in Brimni's blazing bane,
Die in cruel and crazing pain!

Slowly burning, slowly maiming,
Never easing, never resting,
Bitter raw with deadly fest'ring;
Vicious jaws within thee gnawing,
Biting, ripping, tearing, savage,
These thy entrails hotly ravage.

Burn in Brimni's blazing bane,
Die in cruel and crazing pain!
© PB 1977