Thursday, 19 April 2012


My dad made the boilers
For warships and liners,
Huge prisons of steel
For the scolding hot steam.
There was pride in each rivet
Every pattern completed,
When he told me his yarns
I could see his eyes gleam.

Some days he would take me
To stand at the dock head,
He knew all the names
And the places they'd been.
I imagined us sailing
The ships he was part of,
But asbestos killed him
And ended the dream.

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.

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