Patrick Kavanagh


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.
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