The harbour’s ripple-blown surface is home
to majestic whale-hulls. From prow to aft
made good by architect-craft’s hard labour;
fully tracing all long-past’s tragic wrecks
and loan task-graft skills to chasing skipper.
A runnel of flesh-sacs bring dead torches;
swarm, fingering the vertigo rigging;
engrave their blood in the sea-vat brickwork;
leave scrape-skin on malingering tarmac;
scorch the rats out of the flood-up tunnels.
Sparks glint in the pent-up deck then vanish.
Cod-acetylene leaks stink up the wharf;
can’t prevent the bold-explode cap-gashing,
swarf-shrapnel threshing welders in the hold.
No gifts for them sod-worth the working stint.