The Poetry Society

Clean as the early new-washed sky,

clear as the icy sea,

the glass of the galleon rigging

twists into history.

For then the ropes and the oaken hull

gave speed to the merchantmen,

end now there are masters of molten skills

who can build us a ship again

from a blob of glass in the orange heat

of an angry furnace fire.

They can fashion a galleon in full sail

with the glass spun fine as wire;

with sails looped and hanging

from icicle-like spars,

captured in fragile, frozen form:

the pride of the ancient tars.

But this ship will never take to sea,

never wash her decks with spray.

For she's missed the tide,

so she's moored inside -

a land-locked wall display.