SWAN SONG

SWAN SONG

Rusted skeletal ribs, not old but new.
Spidery cranes, smells, clangs, flashes.
Drums of paint, pallets, bags of rivets,
Trucks, trains, planks, tanks, propellers.
Scattered about like a mad dogs' crap.
Ragged caps set at rakish angles,
Arrogant demeanour born of skill.
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 working, a few just making up the
Loweryesque bustling industrial scene.
Riveters riveting, Labourers labouring,
Welders welding and 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 to marina. Down b' the head
Wi' Yuppies rhymed to merchant bankers.
Donned in reefer, Arran and rope soled sneaker
Shore side sailors, only bar they'd bang deals in cocktails
Their dainty Bermuda rigged dazzling dinghies
Those never aspire, nor yet could engage the rolling main.

by Don Passmore?