Six am. Hong Kong morning,
Chill mist across the harbour
Strong brown tea, condensed milk, and sugar
Welcome to the morning
I shout “ten minutes” and go on deck
In the distance the skirl of pipes
Indistinct skyscrapers loom across the slate grey water.
She wears cut down denims, a khaki shirt
Slim ankles in steel toe capped boots
Deck knife and marlinspike on rope- worked belt
Susie McDonald- Lee
Part Chinese, part Scottish engineer
She works her passage with a smile.
Striped pyjamas beneath a boiler suit
The boots are painted red and green
Lest he forget
Murdoch the pride of Stornoway
The cadet who painted his cabin black.
We start on the foremost derrick
Three turns of steel wire round the drum end
Bang the winch with a ten-pound hammer
It’s prone to stick
Bang, bang, bang
The ratchet shatters the silence of the morning
The boom rises to plumb the hatch
Hauling heavy wooden blocks, we stay the boom.
Roar of jet engines
An airliner threads its way between tower blocks
Wing tips brushing multicoloured lines of washing
Below the typhoon harbour
Sampans form a floating island
Extended families, living lives afloat.
The sun breaks through the mist
I feel its warmth
Suzie tightens a shackle with her spike
Cargo lifts linked in union purchase rig
Put, put, put of an ancient diesel, a sailing junk passes close
Deck piled high with cotton bales
Rust red mainsail catching morning breeze
Old woman in black pyjamas leans on the tiller
Flashing a gold-toothed smile, she waves.
Nine am. four sets of derrick rigged
Click, click, click of chopsticks
Bowls of rice and vegetables, steaming tea
We eat hungrily
The crew appear on deck squinting at the morning
A postscript to a night of mah-jong, whores, and alcoholic excess.
Resting on a hatch cover
That Hong Kong dockside morning
We sat at the end of an era
This cargo ship, as outmoded by containerisation
As sailing ships had been by her
The wharves and warehouses ripe for redevelopment
Garish neon bars turned to coffee shops
The sights, and sounds, and smells fading into history
But in my memory...
The junk with red sails, sails on.
Author notes
I was twenty this was my ship and my cargo watch. I had wanted to move away from writing narrative but my enthusiasm got the better of me. Read it fast to get the feel of the thing.
I'm here to learn, you are all poets so I respect your criticism.
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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"The junk with red sails, sails on"
How very different of a scene to read and I learned a new word: "skirl". I enjoy being at sea more than on land; however, flight is one thing to watch and another to experience. Abstract concepts, and unusual stories are a personal pass time. Great work.
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very well done . . you have described the scene well . . like the title as well . . also "Chill mist across the harbour" and "We sat the end end of an era" . .
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Roar of jet engines
An airliner threads its way between tower blocks
Wing tips brushing multicoloured lines of washing
Below the typhoon harbour
Sampans form a floating island
Extended families, living lives afloat.
this is my fave verse, a ling poem however i enjoyed reading it, well written and well done, truly well done -
You shouldn't be afraid to write narratives.... especially when you write them this well!
It was like taking a moment, sheer beauty in all it's obscurity!...
Lovely!
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i love your narratives....don't stop them completely or I will break out in hives!
I read this quickly second time around and now I am dizzy dizzy dizzy in the red sails.
Love, Lane
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