The Ropes Poem by Frank William Finney

Three sailors trotted
Behind your mother in a two-wheeled lifeboat
Like determined rats through the catwalks
To the cages of the newborns
Where we held you captive
On your second day of breathing
In a Fin de siècle world

The first cord is already cut
And wires hang from your navel
As a reminder of ligature to come

For a while all
Will be an extension of your mother
But soon you'll descry
The colourful lures that hang from the mobile;
Feel the strings that tow the conscience;
Hear the sound of the wind through the ratlines
As you try to make slaves of the sails