SWAN SONG

SWAN SONG ?

Rusted skeletal ribs, that are not old, but new.
Large spider like cranes, smells, clangs and flashes.
Drums of paint, pallets, and bags of rivets.
Locos with trucks, planks, oil-tanks and ships-propellers.
All scattered around like a mad dogs' crap.
Ragged caps worn at jaunty rakish angles.
Set atop arrogant demeanours born of guile and skill.
Gloves, safety boots, boiler suits worn with artisan pride.
Bearing bold badges of grease and grime.
Hard hatted gaffers wearing warm macs.
Overseeing those swaggering plebs.
Everywhere men shouting, going, working.
Caulkers, Fitters, Riggers, Sparkies.
Some drinking tea, or maybe thinking.
Others toiling, a few just making up the Loweryesque bustling
scene.
Riveter riveting, labourers labouring.
Welders welding, Joiners joining in.
Many are the professions and skills that manned the yard.
Knowledge, sweat, bribery, craft all used.
To plan, commission, sell and, sail the product of the stocks.
All appeared mad confusion.
Yet proud ocean monarchs grew from this organised turmoil.
But now the yard is neutered, still and silent.
Dock's been transformed wi' yuppies rhymed to merchant bankers.
Donned in reefer, Arran and rope soled sneaker.
Shore side sailors, only bar they'll bang serves cocktails.
Their dainty Bermuda rigged dazzling dinghies.
Those never aspire, nor yet could engage the rolling main.

By Don Passmore ?