The Becoming of the Bell

The Amatola’s loss was Cromarty’s gain.

The belle of Spanish shipbuilding beached,
Grievously wounded in her side;
Unable to resist the fierce allure of the rocks,
Siren song that ripped the heart from her:
That cold sour prevailing north wind
Saw to her beech-timbered belly and its sundering.

Sailors brought to a cold awakening,
The dissolution of their lady of the waves
Once mother to their coarse snores and drink,
She could not shelter them in the end,
Casting into the cold ocean.

Little salvage comes from El Salvador.
Yet the bell carried on, caressed by the weeds.
Green and mournful in the blanket of the deep,
It came at last to the eastern pier.

Polished, raised high on the Courthouse tower,
Beyond the rickety wooden stairs
A better view of the sea it survived.

Not so the ship, the crew, the cargo,
Their figurehead barnacled below.