Girders

Skeletal children born of industrial flame,
Called into being to serve the outgoing ships,
Before the Navy came to service the Firth.
The frightening rush of Dreadnaughts
Pushing industry into a dark boat race,
True blues born to lose in the coming war.

Cooling walkways hiss and steam,
Seafarer raised from a scorching bed to serve,
Its tomb awaiting even now in the ocean,
Past Jutland, the anemones softly rustling
As if to sense the fall of the angry giant
Only now coming to birth, to light.