The Lough

The dull clouds rolled in, not long after three
My view across the lough broken 
As the water lapped into the rocks 
The captain pulled his horn
Gliding past in his floating red and white juggenaut 
Made of tin that gleamed in this deathly winter

The mountain looked down in majesty,
It’s green overcoat planted with cerebral auburn 
The nose of Cave Hill exposed
Jutting from the dense ground 
Sodden by the harsh winter rain
And the footprints of clambering strangers

Sailortown stands in its desolate grime 
Far away I hear the clang of hammer in hand 
Where men shape steel like their great grandfathers
And as the bell toils, in unison they march
Like demonic souls until one by one
They disappear amongst the smoke of her mills.