| Hammers. Timbers. Iron. Steel.They're laying down | | | | must not sink!But down below the decks, |
| a mighty keel.As ant-like workers scurry roundI | | | | unseen:In sneaks the ocean cold and keen.And as |
| hear a truly riveting sound.And as she rises midst | | | | up each steel wall it growsIt reaches top, and |
| the swarmI see the beauty of her form.(He has | | | | overflows.Boats are lowered. Ah! Sad |
| no soul who cannot seeHow I am forced to call | | | | few."Women and babes first!", shout the crew.A |
| her "she".)And then, 'a sudden, she's a ship!She | | | | panicked man, in dressing-gown:"My God! My God! |
| waltzes down that mighty slip.Then, in the water, | | | | She's going down!""Nearer my God, to thee how |
| no splash, mind,This lady floats. Oh! How | | | | near".The band plays on, to calm the fear."You've |
| refined!Southampton docks: I want to feel,And | | | | done your duty, lads, now go."But does the music |
| touch, and taste the British steel!Palatial, and | | | | stop? Oh no.A fervent prayer to He who |
| stately too.(There was no like in Xanadu.)The | | | | savesAs down she slips beneath the waves.The |
| passengers, the crew, all weAre safe aboard, so | | | | silence!Then those dreadful screams.(I sometimes |
| out to sea.The cheers, the midget well-wish | | | | hear them in my dreams.)Next morn, upon that |
| fleet,That siren deck beneath my feet!A jewelled | | | | sorrowed billowA wreath, a chair, a toy, a |
| city, in the night,From shame, the very stars took | | | | pillow.No souls, the souls are all asleep.I stand in |
| flight.Her mighty speed seemed but a creep,So | | | | silent prayer, and weep.Patrick Lockerby - March |
| steady that she seemed asleep.Indeed the city | | | | 2005Born 1946, London, England. |
| slept. A fewRemained awake, they mostly | | | | Grammar-school educated. |
| crew,To feed the rav'nous boilers' maw,To bake | | | | Retired engineer.Interests: |
| the bread, sort mail, and more.I almost dozed and | | | | Anything at all to do with language & linguistics, |
| wished my bed,But:"Iceberg!", "Iceberg! Dead | | | | esp. -- |
| ahead!"With straining engines, spinning wheel,She | | | | poetry, prose; |
| strove to swerve her awesome keelAnd almost, | | | | natural language processing; |
| almost, but, not quite --A straining shrieking rent | | | | control and communication in human systems; |
| the nightAnd rent her hull. (I took no fright.)'Twas | | | | law, lies, logic. |
| but a glancing blow", I think,She will not, cannot, | | | | |