Slowly, like wet swarth, silvered and lathered,
the river wanders and a boat passes,
and a bow-wave bellies up, out, like blown glass.
Here, in ’36, the Great Queen shipped
out into the world to whistles, cheers, drawn
by the tracer’s celluloid hand, and slipped
her hatching ground. Spawned in the squat shadow
of the great crane. Titan, spurned, overthrown,
looks idly on at boats that pass below.
Where riggers fell, now daffodils push up, massed
at the water’s edge where memory washes.
And turn their heads with the sun that passes.