The Millihelen

It never looks warm or properly daytime

in black-and-white photographs the sheer cliff-

face of the ship still enveloped in its scaffolding

backside against the launching cradle

ladies lining the quay in their layered drapery

touching their gloves to their lips and just as

They That Go Down to the Sea in Ships rises

from choirboys’ mouths in wisps and snatches

and evil skitters off and looks askance

for now a switch is flicked at a distance

and the moment swollen with catgut-

about-to-snap with ice picks hawks’ wings

pine needles eggshells bursts and it starts

grandstand of iron palace of rivets starts

moving starts slippery-sliding down

slow as a snail at first in its viscous passage

taking on slither and speed gathering in

the Atlas-capable weight of its own momentum

tonnage of grease beneath to get it waterborne

tallow soft soap train oil a rendered whale

this last the only millihelen her beauty

slathered all over the slipway

faster than a boy with a ticket in his pocket

might run alongside it the bright sheet

of the Lough advancing faster than a tram

heavy chains and anchors kicking in

lest it outdoes itself straining up

to a riot of squeals and sparks lest it capsizes

before its beginning lest it drenches

the aldermen and the ship sits back in the sea

as though it were ordinary and wobbles

ever so slightly and then it and the sun-splashed

tilted hills the railings the pin-striped awning

in fact everything regains its equilibrium.