Marooned in her little lock
Sailing nowhere between the towering glass of the convention centre.
A story of times past: of a Melbourne thick as a forest with the masts of ships.
A huge body of esoteric knowledge: where to get to ‘know the ropes’ took on as much significance as it did for a bell ringer.
Top gallants and royals, gaskets, ratlines and belaying pins. Specialised skills in being aloft at night, pitching and yawing as you scramble, icy handed, to reduce sail.
Replaced by steam and a new lexicon: heads of steam and the vitality of an engineer.
2 thoughts on “The Polly Woodside”
Indeed. Change happens. Its hard but surely worth it when it means a better future; one that we dare to think about, dare to expect, dare to risk what is safe, dare to embrace? Yes indeed. Change needs to happen.
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