by Michael Brett
There are torpedoed ships below the cliffs of Mull,
Beached, abandoned. Above them an L-shaped lighthouse beam
Unbolts the night for scrap.
Each ship is just wartime frames now: squares, oblongs,
Photographs without pictures save those viewed
Through their spines and ribs:
The spume and crash of breakers on Cubist rocks.
The drawl of tides, like empires losing control,
Where the ships all beached in scattering haste,
Holed, torpedoed, burning.
A hundred and fifty years ago, politicians, thinkers,
Heard all the World's Seas ticking in their pocket watches;
Saw Constantine crosses in harbour cranes
And felt a kraken Europe uncoiling to wrap the world,
Make it so rich-thought Marx- it could abolish money.
The tumbling currencies remain.
In the rusting diamond cantilevers-
As the waves strike-you can imagine the ghosts
Surrounded by ocean, their rivet guns and steam hammers
In forgotten shipyards calling
Come back to work, boys.
Come back home.
~
Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/2/12 · Author's Page · Next Poem