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