An Ode To My Ancestors
In Kingston upon Hull, where the Humber flows wide,
Dockside lamps used to flicker above cobblestones slick with salt,
Trawler men gathered—silhouettes against the glow,
Hearts steeled for the Arctic’s hungry halt.
With masts iced in frost they cast off at dawn,
Hands numb but practiced, eyes fixed on the horizon’s line,
With prayers on their lips for fair seas and full nets,
They sailed where the polar winds intertwined.
The winter sea rose in mountainous sweeps,
Black ice coated the wheelhouse and frayed every nerve,
Each wave a leviathan testing their resolve,
While the biting north wind refused to swerve.
Amid the swirl of spindrift and storm’s cruel howl,
They chased cod in waters claimed by myth and frost,
Their steel hulls groaned beneath the Arctic’s weight,
Hauling life from depths where the world seems lost.
St. Romanus, Kingston Peridot, Ross Cleveland—three brave ships,
Vanished in that fateful fortnight of ’68’s deadly storm,
They slipped beneath towering waves without a farewell,
Leaving only whispered prayers in Hull’s early morn.
Smoke columns never rose from those open decks,
Only the Humber’s fog carried vows of remembrance,
Wives on Hessle Road braced in headscarf’s and knitted shawls,
Eyes on the water, counting each moment’s distance.
In narrow terraces children waited for fathers’ return,
Churning fishy air of docks mixing with hope,
They learned early that strength is forged in longing,
And courage blooms where the tears can’t cope.
Each dusk, lamplight trembled against stained glass at Bethel Mission,
As hymns rose for souls navigating heaven’s own tides,
The preacher’s voice a beacon in nights of vigil,
Binding grief and faith where despair resides.
Yet morning brought grit as they splashed decks anew,
Bloodied cuts and knotted ropes marking each tale,
They honored their lost with a nod to the cold sea,
Swearing to sail on, though the horizon might wail.
Back in town, the fishwives sold steely-eyed banter,
Slips of chalk ticking crates of cod and haddock lean,
Half the town’s heartbeat throbbed in that riverside bustle,
Pale faces proud in every weathered seam.
On Hessle Road, laughter fought grief in crowded pubs,
Where whistles and shanties rose above pints of ale,
Young lads wore oilskin jackets like badges of hope,
Dreaming of seas unmarked by gale.
Deckhands stood shoulder to shoulder through winter’s worst,
Their breath a cloud of solidarity in frigid air,
They tuned engines to a familiar hum of survival,
Gallant souls bound by danger they could share.
Each catch a miracle wrested from Neptune’s domain,
Salt crystals like diamonds beneath lantern-light gleam,
They filleted fortune by the glow of wavering lamps,
In hopes that their toil warmed homes and fed dreams.
And though they labored for pence that barely filled plates,
Their pride lay in waves conquered and stories retold,
Of midnight suns and ice floes drifting with doom,
Of colds that bit deeper than winter’s hold.
Seasons turned slow on the edge of the map,
Fishermen weathered by time yet unbroken in will,
They speared back at doubt with unyielding nets,
Their legacy etched in each seasoned drill.
Beyond the break of Hull’s familiar skyline,
Their echoes drift from discarded docks to long gone streets,
A hymn to the trawler men daring Fate’s cruel jest,
Their anthem alive in each salted refrain.
When phantoms of storms licked their dreams at night,
They clutched memories of home’s warm embrace,
One last hug on the quay before steel fists gripped the wheel,
Eyes shining with love time cannot erase.
Now monuments stand for those lost to the deep,
But the poems of Hull are written in grease and sweat,
In every wooden mast and barnacled rail,
In lives lived full beneath horizons unmet.
So raise a glass to the trawler men of Hull,
Who braved black ice, winter seas, and men’s cold schemes,
May their courage still ripple through Humber’s tide,
Anchored forever in Hull’s unwavering dreams.
© Steve Sumner Reeve
