The Ship

    The sunlight burned like wire on the water，

    that morning the ghost ship drove upriver.

    The only witness was a Jersey¹ cow.

    Florid and testy²， a miniature industrialist³，

    the steam tug⁴ spouted⁵ its fiery⁶ plume⁷ of smoke，

    and on the bank the dead trout⁸ lolled，

    beyond the reach of the fishermen now.

    From a distance the fish lay sprawled⁹ like sailors

    after a great sea battle， the masts and spars

    splintered like matchsticks on the water； the mist

    hovering¹⁰ over inlets， cannon-smoke drifting

    off the now-purple， now-green bloom of river.

    In shadow a train inched across a brick viaduct

    ruling the still-dark valley，

    as aqueducts once bullied¹¹ the dawn campagna.

    The cows resented the Cincinnatus patriot¹²，

    knowing they too were bred for slaughter¹³.

    The morning was a painting： the battered¹⁴ warship¹⁵

    hung with dawn lights like a chestful of medals，

    the barren canvas of the Thames， empty out of respect，

    the steam tug beetling¹⁶ to the breaker's yard.

    The sun lay on the horizon like a vegetable.