06-09-2016, 04:06 PM
Edit 1 - Dukealien, Kolemath
When I was seven my Granda took me to see a ship launch.
Hundreds of folk with union jacks and nautical smiles
flooded the streets of Wallsend and floated along
buoyantly down into Swan Hunter's shipyard.
The Queen Mother was there in a posh frock
and some said she looked bonny in her frilly hat,
but Granda said, "Cannit see it meesel son
and anyways the days bonny enuff for us."
We hadn't come to see the fashions of a royal
but royalty fashioned in the building of a ship
on the banks of the Tyne in a yard of wonder.
Standing there in astonishment I absorbed it all.
A faint salt breeze beneath the river's stench,
colliding steel clatters the seagull's screech.
Acetylene flames spit sparks against the sun
as an oil drum thunders down a metal ramp.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Boisterous klaxons scream a pathway clear,
forklift trucks scurry between the legs of cranes.
Frenzied shouts deliver instructions
as dismantled scaffolding collects in a heap.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Electricity crackles, sparks and arcs to fuse,
the white hot welders flame rumbles as it burns.
Syncopated hammers beat a ragtime groove
as a distant pneumatic drill trembles the ground.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Everywhere beaming smiles
beneath hard hats on hard heads.
Everywhere pride.
And at the centre round which all else orbited
HMS Ark Royal stood silent, slumbering on the slipway
an anaesthetised behemoth soon to be awoken
and set free from the hammer and the anvil.
Enormous serpents of rust lay coiled in her shade
set to strike should she still need a final shackling
before a river baptism and the seas confirmation
opened all points on her compass to endless horizons.
Lost in swirling thoughts of ships at sea
I missed the crescendo countdown,
bottle smash and cheering.
A hand shaking my shoulder brought me back ashore
just in time to see the skyline slowly moving
as the giant grey beast woke up moaning.
Gathering unstoppable momentum.
Down and down shaking the ground.
How she howled as her metal shuddered
and how she screamed the rest of the way
until she met the river with an almighty thunderous
boom that sent a wave surging towards the far bank.
Then, without warning
there came a furious rasping hiss
and in an impetuous rage
the serpents gave chase.
Violently jolting and shedding their skin
as they uncoiled and hurtled to the water,
leaving behind a thick cloud of rust
that hid everything from view.
Gradually
the haze cleared to reveal
emptiness.
A decayed wasteland, half a decade's dilapidation.
Workers, wizards, fond well-wishers vanished
and in their place half dismantled cranes lay strewn
across the storm-battered yard, roofless fabrication sheds collapsed
onto seaweed carpeted slipways, scaffolding poles and pylons
toppled, power cables ripped from concrete, concrete ripped from earth
the whole damn forest all upended.
No saplings, no roots, no life except rats—bigger than ever
—and the stray cats that refuse to leave the home they've known for years.
"Wu used to build ships here ye knaa",
Granda reminds the cats as he hands out
the last of the food we brought for them.
Original
When I was seven my Granda took me to see a ship launch.
Hundreds of folk with union jacks and nautical smiles
flooded the streets of Wallsend and floated buoyantly
two by two down into Swan Hunter's shipyard.
The Queen Mother was there in a posh frock
and some said she looked bonny in her frilly hat,
but Granda said, "Cannit see it meesel son
and anyways the days bonny enuff for us."
We hadn't come to see the fashions of a royal
but royalty fashioned in the building of a ship
on the banks of the Tyne in a yard of wonder
the place where I stood with senses alive.
A faint salt breeze beneath the river's stench,
colliding steel clatters the seagulls screech.
Acetylene flames spit sparks into the sun
as an oil drum thunders down a metal ramp.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Cacophonous klaxons scream a pathway clear,
huge sentinel cranes swivel, pivot and rise.
Synchronised forklifts pirouette on an axis
as dismantled scaffolding is thrown onto a heap,
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Electricity crackles, sparks and arcs to fuse,
the white hot welders flame rumbles as it fires.
Syncopated hammers beat a ragtime groove
as a distant pneumatic drill trembles the ground.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Everywhere beaming smiles
beneath hard hats on hard heads.
Everywhere pride.
And at the centre around which everything else orbited
the Ark Royal stood silently slumbering on the slipway
an anaesthetised behemoth soon to be awoken
and set free from the hammer and the anvil.
Enormous serpents of rust lay coiled in her shade
poised to pounce should she still need a final shackling
before a river baptism and the seas confirmation
opened all points on her compass to endless horizons.
I don't remember waiting,
or the passage of time.
No countdown crescendo.
No flag fluttering fanfare.
No building of anticipation and precipice
drop.
No bottle swinging concussed,
helpless at the end of a rope.
I remember the skyline slowly moving
as the giant grey beast woke up moaning.
Gathering an unstoppable momentum.
Down and down shaking the ground.
How she howled as her metal shuddered
and how she screamed the rest of the way
until she met the river with an almighty thunderous
boom that sent a tumultuous wave surging towards the far bank.
Then, without warning
there came a furious rasping hiss
and in an impetuous rage
the serpents gave chase.
Violently jolting and shedding their skin
as they uncoiled and hurtled to the water,
leaving behind a thick cloud of rust
that obscured everything from view.
Gradually
the haze cleared to reveal
emptiness.
A decayed wasteland, half a decades dilapidation.
Workers, wizards, well wishers all vanished
and in their place half dismantled cranes lay strewn
across the storm battered yard, roofless fabrication sheds collapsed
onto seaweed carpeted slipways, scaffolding poles and pylons
toppled, power cables ripped from concrete, concrete ripped from earth
the whole damn forest completely upended.
No saplings, no roots, no life except rats—bigger than ever
—and the stray cats that refuse to leave the home they've known for years.
"Wu used to build ships here ye knaa",
Granda reminds the cats as he hands
out the last of the food we brought for them.
When I was seven my Granda took me to see a ship launch.
Hundreds of folk with union jacks and nautical smiles
flooded the streets of Wallsend and floated along
buoyantly down into Swan Hunter's shipyard.
The Queen Mother was there in a posh frock
and some said she looked bonny in her frilly hat,
but Granda said, "Cannit see it meesel son
and anyways the days bonny enuff for us."
We hadn't come to see the fashions of a royal
but royalty fashioned in the building of a ship
on the banks of the Tyne in a yard of wonder.
Standing there in astonishment I absorbed it all.
A faint salt breeze beneath the river's stench,
colliding steel clatters the seagull's screech.
Acetylene flames spit sparks against the sun
as an oil drum thunders down a metal ramp.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Boisterous klaxons scream a pathway clear,
forklift trucks scurry between the legs of cranes.
Frenzied shouts deliver instructions
as dismantled scaffolding collects in a heap.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Electricity crackles, sparks and arcs to fuse,
the white hot welders flame rumbles as it burns.
Syncopated hammers beat a ragtime groove
as a distant pneumatic drill trembles the ground.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Everywhere beaming smiles
beneath hard hats on hard heads.
Everywhere pride.
And at the centre round which all else orbited
HMS Ark Royal stood silent, slumbering on the slipway
an anaesthetised behemoth soon to be awoken
and set free from the hammer and the anvil.
Enormous serpents of rust lay coiled in her shade
set to strike should she still need a final shackling
before a river baptism and the seas confirmation
opened all points on her compass to endless horizons.
Lost in swirling thoughts of ships at sea
I missed the crescendo countdown,
bottle smash and cheering.
A hand shaking my shoulder brought me back ashore
just in time to see the skyline slowly moving
as the giant grey beast woke up moaning.
Gathering unstoppable momentum.
Down and down shaking the ground.
How she howled as her metal shuddered
and how she screamed the rest of the way
until she met the river with an almighty thunderous
boom that sent a wave surging towards the far bank.
Then, without warning
there came a furious rasping hiss
and in an impetuous rage
the serpents gave chase.
Violently jolting and shedding their skin
as they uncoiled and hurtled to the water,
leaving behind a thick cloud of rust
that hid everything from view.
Gradually
the haze cleared to reveal
emptiness.
A decayed wasteland, half a decade's dilapidation.
Workers, wizards, fond well-wishers vanished
and in their place half dismantled cranes lay strewn
across the storm-battered yard, roofless fabrication sheds collapsed
onto seaweed carpeted slipways, scaffolding poles and pylons
toppled, power cables ripped from concrete, concrete ripped from earth
the whole damn forest all upended.
No saplings, no roots, no life except rats—bigger than ever
—and the stray cats that refuse to leave the home they've known for years.
"Wu used to build ships here ye knaa",
Granda reminds the cats as he hands out
the last of the food we brought for them.
Original
When I was seven my Granda took me to see a ship launch.
Hundreds of folk with union jacks and nautical smiles
flooded the streets of Wallsend and floated buoyantly
two by two down into Swan Hunter's shipyard.
The Queen Mother was there in a posh frock
and some said she looked bonny in her frilly hat,
but Granda said, "Cannit see it meesel son
and anyways the days bonny enuff for us."
We hadn't come to see the fashions of a royal
but royalty fashioned in the building of a ship
on the banks of the Tyne in a yard of wonder
the place where I stood with senses alive.
A faint salt breeze beneath the river's stench,
colliding steel clatters the seagulls screech.
Acetylene flames spit sparks into the sun
as an oil drum thunders down a metal ramp.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Cacophonous klaxons scream a pathway clear,
huge sentinel cranes swivel, pivot and rise.
Synchronised forklifts pirouette on an axis
as dismantled scaffolding is thrown onto a heap,
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Electricity crackles, sparks and arcs to fuse,
the white hot welders flame rumbles as it fires.
Syncopated hammers beat a ragtime groove
as a distant pneumatic drill trembles the ground.
A rhythm, a pulse, alive.
Everywhere beaming smiles
beneath hard hats on hard heads.
Everywhere pride.
And at the centre around which everything else orbited
the Ark Royal stood silently slumbering on the slipway
an anaesthetised behemoth soon to be awoken
and set free from the hammer and the anvil.
Enormous serpents of rust lay coiled in her shade
poised to pounce should she still need a final shackling
before a river baptism and the seas confirmation
opened all points on her compass to endless horizons.
I don't remember waiting,
or the passage of time.
No countdown crescendo.
No flag fluttering fanfare.
No building of anticipation and precipice
drop.
No bottle swinging concussed,
helpless at the end of a rope.
I remember the skyline slowly moving
as the giant grey beast woke up moaning.
Gathering an unstoppable momentum.
Down and down shaking the ground.
How she howled as her metal shuddered
and how she screamed the rest of the way
until she met the river with an almighty thunderous
boom that sent a tumultuous wave surging towards the far bank.
Then, without warning
there came a furious rasping hiss
and in an impetuous rage
the serpents gave chase.
Violently jolting and shedding their skin
as they uncoiled and hurtled to the water,
leaving behind a thick cloud of rust
that obscured everything from view.
Gradually
the haze cleared to reveal
emptiness.
A decayed wasteland, half a decades dilapidation.
Workers, wizards, well wishers all vanished
and in their place half dismantled cranes lay strewn
across the storm battered yard, roofless fabrication sheds collapsed
onto seaweed carpeted slipways, scaffolding poles and pylons
toppled, power cables ripped from concrete, concrete ripped from earth
the whole damn forest completely upended.
No saplings, no roots, no life except rats—bigger than ever
—and the stray cats that refuse to leave the home they've known for years.
"Wu used to build ships here ye knaa",
Granda reminds the cats as he hands
out the last of the food we brought for them.
wae aye man ye radgie