Today we have a poem from one of Scotland’s most celebrated poets, Ian Crichton Smith.
Is it about an old woman (if so it is rather cruel) or is it about an old religion? One in stark contrast with the wild spirits that surround it.
Either way, it is a rather stunning poem.
Old Woman, by Ian Crichton Smith
Your thorned back
heavily under the creel
you steadily stamped the rising daffodil.
Your set mouth
forgives no-one, not even God’s justice
perpetually drowning law with grace.
Your cold eyes
watched your drunken husband come
unsteadily from Sodom home.
Your grained hands
dandled full and sinful cradles.
You built for your children stone walls.
Your yellow hair
burned slowly in a scarf of grey
wildly falling like mountain spray.
Finally you’re alone
among the unforgiving brass,
the slow silences, the sinful glass.
Who never learned,
not even aging, to forgive
our poor journey and our common grave
while the free daffodils
wave in the valleys and on the hills
the deer look down with their instinctive skills,
and the huge sea
in which your brothers drowned sings slow
over the headland and the peevish crow.
Thank you for sharing this, Chris! I found it really striking that you shared this poem on Ash Wednesday. It has such a weight of unforgiveness and struggle, while Ash Wednesday is often about reflection, repentance, and grace. What connections were you drawing between the two? I would love to hear your thoughts on how they speak to each other, particularly in the context of “Old Religion,” to draw on the metaphor you mentioned.