In a shipyard in an Irish cove, rose a gantry guarding a treasure trove. And every day, for three long years, countless men stacked tier upon tier. The majesty, the grandeur of the “Ship of Dreams,” the ocean’s dove. A feat of engineering skill, an act of man’s sheer iron will, the symbol of a grand new age and, aptly named, this gilded cage was crowned the queen of wide Atlantic; the greatest liner yet: Titanic
Regally she glided passed, a floating city, mast to mast…
Gaping jaws and glaring eyes marveled at her immense size.
An anchor of stability, “unsinkable” this ship would be…
But her precious cargo, rich and poor, came only once through gangway door : Proud and haughty or low and meek, on a pleasure cruise or new lives to seek. What luck her maiden voyage take, Europe vanishing within her wake.
Steaming forward through the sea, to keep her date with destiny, her fleeting glory, laud, and praise were doomed to only last four days. For on crisp and clear cold Sunday eve, a mount of ice her side would cleave. Warned when she was under weigh, unheeded, speed and course in stay; Kept “Full Ahead,” she might steer clear, but “Full Astern,” called out in fear. Did then the epic moment seal; the rudder useless under wheel.
Youths in jest with ice on deck, while below: A damage check…
Flooding one foot every minute, all lives on board at stake within it.
Awakened fast from bunk or bed with tired eyes and heavy head; Or, amused at poker game, betting on her sacred name, most did opt to stay indoors and not in cold boats take up oars.
So, life craft were lowered left unfilled, the number rising to be killed. Far too little, far too late, as decks did list with steady gait, did classes come to grasp their fate and for the boats begin to wait. But, with distress rockets lighting up the sky, and a ship, surely, on the horizon nigh, to music, they walked, they talked, they laughed, not realizing that, by half,
the boats fell short and then were gone, and now a hymn became the song.
A sudden lunge began the panic, the death throes of the great Titanic. In nightwear, robes, mink coats, and top hats, her passengers now frenzied rats scurrying vainly in desperate plight, avoiding water’s icy bite.
Rising…rising…ever higher. Ship became cathedral spire. A silhouette against the sky, a monument to those who’d die. Then she split in two and slipped away, abandoning her freezing prey; Down for Davey Jones to dock her, she left behind a grim meat locker. Whatever made mere man to think to build a ship God could not sink?
©inalmine
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