Abstract
What blackness holds the white steam In its black funnel; heavy, thick, dense Smoke out of the funnel, the sea taking On the ironclad character, bearing its weight, Its progress? I am reminded of the metal Fire-fighter’s tank my grandfather Of the forests left to my father in his will. Metal tank strapped to the back, webbed To cotton and flesh, black rubber hose, Brass nozzle, pressured by pumping To spray a mist, or squirt a jet. Maybe A language of boiler rooms and steam Ships? To fight forest-fires, dozens Of men formed a phalanx, each watching The exposed side of their neighbor, Watery shields melded. Futile as walls Of flame bore down. Inside the furnace, The charring, the black residue. Fire On everyone’s lips as the southern half Of a country smoulders, burns. Newspapers And amateurs record images. The steam Ship plows through contrary but willing Waters. The terracotta...
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