These Are My Bounds
I am Margaret Cumiskey, born in Jarrow on Friday January 20, 1893.
Palmer’s shipyard cranes oversee the town,
straddling, wide-legging-it,
dragged to earth when the yard closed in 1933.
We lived in Albion Street where men waltzed
into ‘The Albion’ bar, staggering out, balling at the sky.
As a bairn me da skelped me for hanging round its doors.
It was my doll’s house.
See me at fourteen-year-old on Jarrow’s Ferry,
crossing the river for work at Haggie’s Rope Works;
rivetters hammers had our voices a whisper
shouting in each other’s faces.
Feeling me fingers along the terracotta Baroque Jarrow Town Hall,
loving the satin-smooth brick and
never forgetting the marchers leaving in 1936, now cherished
in memories of hunger and pride.
‘The Borough’, our Victorian Gin Palace,
my husband drank in his neat as a pin navy-blue suit,
now I contend with silence.
Not for him beyond grave revelations.
I yearn for him to say, ‘I love you’. We married at Saint Bede’s church,
I go to Mass with Bridget every Sunday,
breathless with desire to hold her.
Dead of TB at thirteen.
The day’s silent as Bridget’s unmarked grave as I
long for her to squeeze me hand
heading to our Council three-bed-roomed heaven:
indoor toilet, garden front, back and near my Bridget.
I am still walking my bounds,
standing at me unmarked grave,
not for the first time yearning for love:
that has never died.
