Where Ships Come To Die Poem by M.L. Emmett

On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.

Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.

Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.

Metal monoliths
sucked deep
into the black sand.

The people of Sitakunda
come marching
an army of ants
across the slippery surface
of the diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.

Barefoot with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape

Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.

Bit by bit
they carry booty
to the waiting shore.

Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but the metallic flavour and oily stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay

Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and kill
the daring, the slow and the weak.