The Ship

    The sunlight burned like wire on the water，

    that morning the ghost ship drove upriver.

    The only witness was a Jersey cow.

    Florid and testy， a miniature industrialist，

    the steam tug spouted its fiery plume of smoke，

    and on the bank the dead trout lolled，

    beyond the reach of the fishermen now.

    From a distance the fish lay sprawled like sailors

    after a great sea battle， the masts and spars

    splintered like matchsticks on the water； the mist

    hovering 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 bullied the dawn campagna.

    The cows resented the Cincinnatus patriot，

    knowing they too were bred for slaughter.

    The morning was a painting： the battered warship

    hung with dawn lights like a chestful of medals，

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

    the steam tug beetling to the breaker's yard.

    The sun lay on the horizon like a vegetable.