The sunlight burned like wire on the water，
that morning the ghost ship drove upriver.
The only witness was a Jersey cow.
Florid and testy， a miniature industrialist，
the steam tug spouted its fiery plume of smoke，
and on the bank the dead trout lolled，
beyond the reach of the fishermen now.
From a distance the fish lay sprawled like sailors
after a great sea battle， the masts and spars
splintered like matchsticks on the water； the mist
hovering over inlets， cannon-smoke drifting
off the now-purple， now-green bloom of river.
In shadow a train inched across a brick viaduct
ruling the still-dark valley，
as aqueducts once bullied the dawn campagna.
The cows resented the Cincinnatus patriot，
knowing they too were bred for slaughter.
The morning was a painting： the battered warship
hung with dawn lights like a chestful of medals，
the barren canvas of the Thames， empty out of respect，
the steam tug beetling to the breaker's yard.
The sun lay on the horizon like a vegetable.