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Shipbuilding
I build a model of a ship. Why don’t I build a tram?
I build a model of a ship ‘cos that is what I am;
In spirit, in my DNA, as it was unknown then,
Before the electronics. Ships were ships and men were men.
My ancestry reveals a living from the trade in cheese,
From Chester, in the days of sail. ‘Twas not a life of ease.
To load down to the marks alongside Crane Wharf, at the Dee;
And swing upon the ebb – and make the passage out to sea;
Somehow, by much skill now lost. Or hidden, anyway;
This once was my ancestral life. This was the working day.
Cheese to Northern Europe (if not London) under sail;
And privilege is mine to know the remnants of that tale.
‘Twas long ago. Four generations. Father’s Great-Grandfather:
Owner. Master of the Ship. Here am I proud? Yes, rather,
To think of how he beat his passage down the Estuary,
Where I sit looking now in some degree of luxury.
The wind and tide I now observe. I scarcely draw a breath,
Where once, then, for my ancestors, these things were life and death.
The measure of the canvas and the maintenance of rigging,
Were vital then, and daily. Keep her steady, bowsprit digging,
Into the fresh Nor’ Westerly as we beat out to sea,
Through Beer-House Hole, God bless my Soul, this is how it must be;
And out towards the Point of Air in Flintshire; and Welsh Channel,
Beating, beating, all the way, by muscle without flannel.
Clear. And round the Skerries. On our way. Another trip.
I am the master of my soul. Yes, yet another trip.
It’s bread upon the table. It is but the way of life,
For me and for my maintenance of family and wife.
Out to sea and back. It is an honourable trade.
Jack, we are alright. Here is another voyage made.
Chester to North Europe and return, to make a dime.
To my Great-Great Grandpa I pay due homage, over time.
BY
02.11.2019
I build a model of a ship. Why don’t I build a tram?
I build a model of a ship ‘cos that is what I am;
In spirit, in my DNA, as it was unknown then,
Before the electronics. Ships were ships and men were men.
My ancestry reveals a living from the trade in cheese,
From Chester, in the days of sail. ‘Twas not a life of ease.
To load down to the marks alongside Crane Wharf, at the Dee;
And swing upon the ebb – and make the passage out to sea;
Somehow, by much skill now lost. Or hidden, anyway;
This once was my ancestral life. This was the working day.
Cheese to Northern Europe (if not London) under sail;
And privilege is mine to know the remnants of that tale.
‘Twas long ago. Four generations. Father’s Great-Grandfather:
Owner. Master of the Ship. Here am I proud? Yes, rather,
To think of how he beat his passage down the Estuary,
Where I sit looking now in some degree of luxury.
The wind and tide I now observe. I scarcely draw a breath,
Where once, then, for my ancestors, these things were life and death.
The measure of the canvas and the maintenance of rigging,
Were vital then, and daily. Keep her steady, bowsprit digging,
Into the fresh Nor’ Westerly as we beat out to sea,
Through Beer-House Hole, God bless my Soul, this is how it must be;
And out towards the Point of Air in Flintshire; and Welsh Channel,
Beating, beating, all the way, by muscle without flannel.
Clear. And round the Skerries. On our way. Another trip.
I am the master of my soul. Yes, yet another trip.
It’s bread upon the table. It is but the way of life,
For me and for my maintenance of family and wife.
Out to sea and back. It is an honourable trade.
Jack, we are alright. Here is another voyage made.
Chester to North Europe and return, to make a dime.
To my Great-Great Grandpa I pay due homage, over time.
BY
02.11.2019