There must be lonelier graves

than Betty's

but few

and none lonelier on lonely Hoy.

Up there in the heather,

miles above the sound of sea.

Betty Corrigall.

Walked into the waves with no wedding ring.

No sacred vows,

just a sacred foetus,

but was rescued,

Saved.

For what? In a community that talked of salvation

but shunned her.

Finished the job a little later

with a rope,

the rope they buried with her

on the parish boundary.

A parish.

And just how does that word have meaning

when women are treated like this?

The father runs off to sea,

so the mother throws herself in,

should there not be compassion?

Expectant mother indeed.

She might have expected some understanding

of betrayed trust,

some help or support,

some humanity.

A blessing on Kenwood Bryant and Harry Berry

who gave her a grave,

Dignity, Respect.

A blessing on them

for their humanity.

And a blessing too, on Betty.

 

A second poem inspired by Hoy. Find out more about Betty at http://www.hoyorkney.com/VisitHoy/betty_corrigall.html