In Oils

Between fjords and the Firth, the rig whirred 
from its crown-block to the pit of its stress-cage – 
my father left at dawn to work the offshore fields.
He grafted with roughnecks and a crude-talking toolpusher:  
their toil slaked fuel lines, lit flarestacks, stoked motors.
Farther north, the trickle and tick of ice floes.
That year’s gales uprooted dunes, hurled gulls 
along Union Street; the derrick braced its anchors, 
strained against the storm-surge. 
                                                    His chair sat empty.
The desk paperweight: a drop of Brent crude
globed in glass, the tarry slick levelling when I tilted it.
I tried to pray for breezes to ferry him home,
but all I could invoke were fields of North Sea oil:
Magnus, Beatrice, Loyal.