H'work for w/e 5.10.20 ... ON THIS DAY
Posted: Fri Sep 18, 2020 2:16 pm
ON THIS DAY ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet
On this day he took a photo from a high and windy hill,
took the shot across the harbour, captured rooftops red and still,
far below all to and froing, were the ferries and the tugs
harbour 'water beetles' going 'bout their business like small bugs.
Distant hillsides slumbered softly 'neath the gray somnolent clouds
that were clustered o'er the harbour like old sailing ship's shrouds,
whilst a feeble ray of sunshine, tried to force it's way on through
to bring just a touch of brightness to the somewhat gloomy view.
Two steel shoulders teetered upwards from stone stanchions at their base,
reaching skywards to the heavens, seemingly balanced in space.
The framework was crisscross girders whilst two cranes were there for hoist,
all by morning mists still coated - slippery and dewdrop moist.
And some claim that before sunrise, if one listened one could hear
voices of those lost ones calling out to those they'd loved so dear.
Those souls entombed in concrete, those crushed by steel and stone.
Pray, who here now remembers? Who will for their deaths atone?
Only sixteen workers died it's claimed - some claim they're not alone.
Only two were killed by falling - others crushed by capping stone
as they slept in drunken stupour in the corner of the pier
they went unnoticed by others little knowing death was near.
Sealed forever at the bottom of our mighty tower bridge
stretching o'er our harbour waters like a perfect running stitch.
A ghost hunter bought from England for the opening ceremony
advised they ask a lot of people to dilute the acrimony.
They invited all of Sydney - it was such a grand affair
but the souls sealed in the towers never got a mention there.
There are none who mourn their passing, there are few who know their tale
over 90 years have been and gone - it's quite beyond the pale.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes - for doubtless that's all remains.
Is it truth or just a legend ? ... None can see the old bloodstains.
Now there's hundreds climb that bridge each year - their safety paramount.
Each one that ventures up is known - each tour has a body count.
Some workers, when they cross the bridge, sprinkle a little wine
as sacrifice to sixteen souls who lost their place in time.
A type of Pagan service to those souls who passed before
who now guard Sydney's harbour from two shores for evermore.
On this day he took a photo from a high and windy hill,
took the shot across the harbour, captured rooftops red and still,
far below all to and froing, were the ferries and the tugs
harbour 'water beetles' going 'bout their business like small bugs.
Distant hillsides slumbered softly 'neath the gray somnolent clouds
that were clustered o'er the harbour like old sailing ship's shrouds,
whilst a feeble ray of sunshine, tried to force it's way on through
to bring just a touch of brightness to the somewhat gloomy view.
Two steel shoulders teetered upwards from stone stanchions at their base,
reaching skywards to the heavens, seemingly balanced in space.
The framework was crisscross girders whilst two cranes were there for hoist,
all by morning mists still coated - slippery and dewdrop moist.
And some claim that before sunrise, if one listened one could hear
voices of those lost ones calling out to those they'd loved so dear.
Those souls entombed in concrete, those crushed by steel and stone.
Pray, who here now remembers? Who will for their deaths atone?
Only sixteen workers died it's claimed - some claim they're not alone.
Only two were killed by falling - others crushed by capping stone
as they slept in drunken stupour in the corner of the pier
they went unnoticed by others little knowing death was near.
Sealed forever at the bottom of our mighty tower bridge
stretching o'er our harbour waters like a perfect running stitch.
A ghost hunter bought from England for the opening ceremony
advised they ask a lot of people to dilute the acrimony.
They invited all of Sydney - it was such a grand affair
but the souls sealed in the towers never got a mention there.
There are none who mourn their passing, there are few who know their tale
over 90 years have been and gone - it's quite beyond the pale.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes - for doubtless that's all remains.
Is it truth or just a legend ? ... None can see the old bloodstains.
Now there's hundreds climb that bridge each year - their safety paramount.
Each one that ventures up is known - each tour has a body count.
Some workers, when they cross the bridge, sprinkle a little wine
as sacrifice to sixteen souls who lost their place in time.
A type of Pagan service to those souls who passed before
who now guard Sydney's harbour from two shores for evermore.
