Does it seem, I say, All but the most incredible A slender copper wire is stretched Across two thousand miles ? Across the all-but-fathomless, Where humans cannot penetrate, There spans a thread across the sea To link our distant isles.
Does it seem, I say, All but a miracle of art That thoughts of living men In the cheerful light of day, About the markets and the seasons, And elections, and the wars, And tender nothings from our lives, Should manifest this way ?
Does it seem, I say, All but the most remarkable These thoughts should clothe themselves In such an elemental spark, And shoot with fiery speed In a moment, in a twinkling, From hemisphere to hemisphere, Through vast abyssal dark ?
Does it seem, I say, All but the work of genius That through such nether oceans Streams of thoughts should race and leap ? Among the uncouth monsters, Along the wreck-paved floor, And throughout the oozy dungeons Of the silent, rayless deep.
The venture-prizer – that was the man Who knew not a jot about the telegraph – But don’t yet laugh, he had a plan.
In 1851, he knew a cable could be run Beneath the Channel, shore-to-shore – Because it had been done the year before.
More than likely, if not him, Then someone else would chance their limb, But it was he who seized the circumstance.
By 1865, his crazy dream had come alive, With Yankee pluck (and maybe madness too) – His luck ran good and bad, but he ran true.
Some say that history is just a few great men – But then, what of the sailors and the bankers and the bureaucrats, The cable-makers and the engineers and the diplomats ?
But nevertheless, perhaps it also takes the skill Of a charismatic hope and an unshakable will – This world is changed and made anew by those who do.
Someone needs to shout above the scrum, To point out to the hum-a-drum That this idea’s time has come.
Once, the gossip only moved As fast as anyone could walk, Or gallop, if there were a need To hurry-up the speed of talk. The fastest was the pigeon post, As long as messages were short. But once the ocean vast was reached, Then all those means would count for naught.
Despite the wings, despite the hooves, Despite the engineers, We’ve not advanced the speed of news These past two thousand years.
So letters, treaties, plans and briefs Must make their way together As slowly, slowly, boat by boat, They risk the waves and weather. The urgent and the leisurely Arrive still side by side, Yet over land we’d have them there As fast as we can ride.
Despite the ships, despite the crews, Despite the steam and gears, We’ve not advanced the speed of news These past two thousand years.
Dear Dad, There’s just so much I have to tell you, Just so much that I have seen… …Dear Sis, I hope you’re keeping well, I’m keeping fit and fed and clean… …My darling Anne, Oh how I miss you still, I hope your married life is good… …My best mate Dan, And all the lads a’t’mill, Is there someone else where I once stood ?… …Dear Mum… …Mijn lieve Klara… …Bonne-maman… ….A Seán, a chara… …Take these words, they’re all we’ve got, They’ll cross the sea as we cannot… …Cari saluti… …Bester grus… …Todo mi amor… …Mit einem Kuss…
The sea is wide, my son, so wide, And the wind is free, so free – The sea is long to the other side, And the currents strong on the Westward tide. Don’t tarry here because I cried – Your boat is at the quay.
The land is big, I hear, so big, The boat is small, is she – But you must leave aboard this brig, To seek out better roots to dig. I know you won’t return, my sprig – You won’t return to me.
A survey sought to sample us Down to a thousand souls – I was never questioned though, So others filled my roles. But who were these individuals Standing in for me ? I always hoped to be unique, Not cloned so easily ! Am I nothing more than maths, A mindless analogue ? Am I so predictable, A predetermined cog ? Probably. With seven bill’yon-odd, The odds are high, All thinking they’re alone, like me – Statistically shy.
Once upon a rail, When the locomotives first set sail, Their engineers, they already knew That these were not just drab machines – No, each was special to her crew, Bedecked and tendered like a queen – And painted – donned with pride and with blue, Protected with their red, and enamoured with their green.
Stephenson Trials Melanie Marr, coming home on the train From a day-out in York and the Railway Museum – So many locos, and no time to see them, And only their colours stood out, in the main. From the first Locomotive, a wood-and-black fellow, The blaze of the Rocket, so pristine, so yellow !, To Brightons in umber, and Cambrian grey – But the big four were coming to sweep them away…
Brunswick A little lighter than British Racing, But darker than Southern and LNER – The perfect green, thought Melanie Marr, A green both dignified and bracing ! So Great Westerns got her vote, If she really had to make a pick. Some may call it middle Brunswick, They just called it locomotive.
Malachite Melanie never like malachite, Forever sandwiched inbetween – It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bright, But under-ripe, and over-green. They could have had electric blue, Or merchant-navy silver grey – However fast the boat-train flew, That green would never save the day.
Apple The apple was fine, but they just couldn’t settle – A little unsure on the colour of metal. The Mallard was blue, much to Melanie’s sighs, With garter and overcoat worn in disguise. They’d muddied their branding, they’d chilled their panache – Are apples too homely for cutting a dash ? Why be so ashamed of so fruitful a sheen ? If you’re gonna break records, then break them in green !
Crimson Lake A name, she thought, like a matinee idol – A Paisley lass, or maybe Crewe, Who caught the deep red train to London, Changing her name, and her accent too. By the time she disembarked at Euston, She already was a star – Ready to faint in the melodramas, Ready to dine in the restaurant car.
Rail Blue British Railways had the pick, And flirted with a lively blue, But switched it back to Brunswick, quick, And endless green would have to do. But when the Railways stubbed to Rail, They tried a blue which hid the dirt – For Melanie, no greater hurt Could now disgrace the midnight mail.
Franchise Rainbow Privitised, and multi-coloured, Trains of ev’ry shade but beige – And some are old Great Western-dressed, But Melanie is not impressed. Call her spotter, call her dullard, But that was a diff’rent age – Now trains are sleek, but lacking sheen – Yet marketed by all as ‘green’.
Maroon The final leg to Rayners Lane, Yet not a trace inside the train Of the gorgeous purple of the Met. The tube-line on the map is all we get. But once the poles and seats would say That here maroon could still be found Within her train to work each day, When she was scarlet-fronted, Euston-bound.
The Future’s Bright Melanie, though now retired, Imagines what intrepid acts Await for her on down the tracks To get her boiler fired. In any livery, it’s plain That market-men have simply shown What engineers have always known – A train is never just a train.
Knowledge has always a dangerous gleam, And there in the Garden, that treacherous Snake Would tempt and corrupt with so cunning a scheme – To lead the naive from this Heaven to harm, For fog to be lifted and dawning to break, To shatter these shackles of innocent calm. But Eve bit the apple for humankind’s sake, For what the Lord fears is what humans can take – Just give us an inkling, just chance us an arm, The glimpse of a theory, the trace of a wake, The hint of a sequence, the ghost of a theme, The scent of a notion, the birth of a dream, We’ll bend it and twist it and pick at its seam, And build it and test it and lay bare its charm, Till genome and quantum are held in our palm.
The Illinois by Frank Wright, king of the wangers.
The High Cost of High-Rise
Okay, I’ll admit it – The expertise to scrape the sky, To build a hundred storeys high, The maths we truly understand, The engineering we command, To know the stresses held in steel, To take such plans and make them real… Okay, I’ll admit it, It’s a pretty bloody big amazing deal.
But just because we can, That doesn’t mean we always should, That competence is only good – That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care, That towers often overbear, That carbon cost and energy To work the lifts is never free – So just because we can It doesn’t mean we have to boast so cleverly.
Rhyming Couplets 