Scrap iron - A brown mountain at the Dublin docks: - Twisted motor chassis Engines that once possessed creative energy Stoves, wheels, Jumbled tumbled A catalogue-maker's puzzle. Minds sicken In the sight of these served-their-purpose things… A dead culture. Yet somewhere up the river The Life One sings: - A Leeds furnace Is the phoenix From whose death-wings on this scrap-heap Will rise Mechanic vigour. We believe. Now is the Faith-dawn.