Gaynor Kane

                        I can’t resist the challenge 

                            of working out your code. 

                        Listen to the click, click, click 

                            of teeth nipping past the pin. 

                        Listen for the tock of the clock, 

                            as the dials rotate. 

                        Listen for ticks of numbers falling 

                            in place and your combo clunk. 

                        You meet my nose with coldness 

                            and the scent of blood, 

                        newborns, and his collection 

                            of copper coins. Mother’s gold 

                        charm bracelet with clover, wishing well, 

                            clog and key. Or her grandfather’s 

                        old toolbox, a cacophony of giants: 

                            chisels, claw-hammer, hacksaw, caulk.

                        Your colour has me thinking 

                            of boulders along the edge 

                        of Belfast Lough, where O’Neill’s red 

                            hand alighted after being cleaved 

                        and hurled from sea to land. 

                            Or mountains of fossilised rocks, 

                        stacked at the docks. Coal carted, 

                            then scooped in spade loads into sacks.

                        You are tugboat shaped, 

                            but my thoughts go large to Arrol gantries 

                        and liners nesting within skeletal stocks, 

                            until fully formed. Rivets struck 

                        like rhythmic heartbeats. Chocks lodged 

                            in place, to stop them slipping out to sea, 

                        until waters broke and ships 

                            were birthed by tugboat midwives.

                        Everything was monochrome, chalk, smoke, 

                            firebrick, slack. Dunchers and dungarees, 

                        grubby hands and faces at clocking-off, 

                            men’s boots still gleaming with pride. 

                        Pride passed down paternally, 

                            reflecting on shiny surfaces, 

                        until the yard was boat-less, barren, 

                            and the gates all locked.