As watery sun rises

ayont the tied cottages

owa thor.

Bess can barely see though the driving rain

that drenched her path.

She yaans her third hoor

heaving the pan

tiv warm his nibs netty bowl

with young Agnes -

this new femmer lass

who’s faalen wrang by his nibs

- but lost the bairn.

This lass who’s smaal girth canna bear the weight

causing the pan to cowp

- a tide to swell

and lap boiling water

that drenches the lass’s piny

and causes Bess to twist

and wince against her sciatica

to heave the pan in a gasp

back onto the heavy stove.

It’s weight more than her new grand bairn

born within a year of her neenth

now lying deed and caad

aside his five gone siblings

Bess reaches for a cloot to wipe her braa

‘Divvent worry, pet lamb!

Sit doon on’t cracket by the stove.’

She reaches oot

her arms wobbling their warmth towards the lass

gently touching her bony back

that bears both loss

and the relief.

Bess’ touch warns of endless years

of graft

and boiling burns

this fresh kitchen labouring lass

will yet see

- unless his nibs tek agin her,

aaa’ oot a sight, favooring another bit of skirt

‘Aa’l wipe it!

Get aaa’ owa thor’

She nods to the stove.

‘And tret yootself to a left owa tatie, hinnie’

She smiles a weary sigh

nodding to the pile beneath the waxed paper.

She taalies the lang list agin

- time ticking towards Peter, the Butler,

Come to say she’s wrang agin

Bess glances owa the windaa’.

The sheets have turned to mizzle.

Bess senses Peter is nigh.

Then hears steps plodging

through the rain.

As the door opens

she looks at Agnes

-knowing where Peter’s loyalties lie

So she points at the encrusted pan that weighs as much as the young lass

‘Can yee wish the clarty pan by the chimley’

Agnes nods and whispers ‘Aye.’

Pushing herself off the stone top

Bess heaves resentment back into her heavy breast

And stands her full five foor,

wiping hands on her smudged sark.

She lashes a smile across her weary face

to greet her foe.

‘Yee areet?’

He barely deeks her wa’

She tries agin.

‘Clammin, marra?’

She nods towards the taties.

Agnes drops her gaze and

slips aaa’, scuttling away with her open secret

as the gadgie frumps his privilege

-and his master’s shame -

onto the cracket

and reaches for the scran

that Agnes daren’t tek