Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CRANE, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CRANE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
Last Line: Went whirling through the starry sky.
Subject(s): Cranes (machines)


The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
Two hundred ton more easily
Than I can lift my heavy head:
And when it swings, the whole world shifts,
Or so, at least, it seems to me,
As, day and night, adream I lie
Upon my crippled back in bed,
And watch it up against the sky.

My mother, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there --
At three-and-three the dozen pair...
She'd sit all night, and stitch for me,
Her son, if I could only wear...
She never lifts her eyes to see
The big crane swinging through the air.

But though she has no time to talk,
She always cleans the window-pane,
That I may see it clear and plain:
And as I watch it move, I walk
Who never walked in all my days...
And often, as I dream agaze,
I'm up and out: and it is I
Who swing the crane across the sky.

Right up above the wharf I stand,
And touch a lever with my hand,
To lift a bunch of girders high,
A truck of coal, a field of grain
In sacks, a bundle of big trees,
Or beasts, too frightened in my grip
To wonder at their skiey trip:
And then I let the long arm dip
Without a hitch, without a slip,
To set them safely in the ship
That waits to take them overseas.

My mother little dreams it's I,
Up there, as tiny as a fly,
Who stand above the biggest crane,
And swing the ship-loads through the sky;
While she sits, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there --
At three-and-three the dozen pair.

And sometimes when it turns me dizzy,
I lie and watch her, ever busy;
And wonder at a lot of things
I never speak to her about:
I wonder why she never sings
Like other people on the stair...
And why, whenever she goes out
Upon a windy day, the air
Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright...
And if the colour of her hair
Was brown like mine, or always white...
And why, when through the noise of feet
Of people passing in the street,
She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat,
She always starts up in her chair,
And looks before her with strange stare,
Yet seeing nothing anywhere:
Though right before her, through the sky,
The biggest crane goes swinging by.

But it's a lucky day and rare
When she's the time to talk with me...
Though, only yesterday, when night
Shut out, at last, the crane from sight...
She, in her bed, and thinking I
Was sleeping -- though I watch the sky,
At times, till it is morning-light,
And ships are waiting to unload --
I heard her murmur drowsily:
"The pit-pat-pattering of feet,
All night, along the moonlit road...
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat...
The bracken's deep and soft and dry...
And safe and snug, and no one near...
The little burn sings low and sweet,
The little burn sings shrill and clear...
And loud all night the cock-grouse talks...
There's naught in heaven or earth to fear...
The pit-pat-pattering of feet...
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat..."
And then she started up in bed:
I felt her staring, as she said:
"I wonder if he ever hears
The pit-pat-pattering of sheep,
Or smells the broken bracken stalks...
While she is lying sound-asleep
Beside him ... after all these years --
Just nineteen years, this very night --
Remembering? ... and now, his son,
A man ... and never stood upright!"

And then I heard a sound of tears;
But dared not speak, or let her know
I'd caught a single whisper, though
I wondered long what she had done
That she should fear the pattering feet:
And when those queer words in the night
Had fretted me half-dead with fright,
And set my throbbing head abeat...
Out of the darkness, suddenly,
The crane's long arm swung over me,
Among the stars, high overhead...
And then it dipped, and clutched my bed:
And I had not a breath to cry,
Before it swung me through the sky,
Above the sleeping city high,
Where blinding stars went blazing by...

My mother, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there,
At three-and-three the dozen pair,
With quiet eyes and smooth white hair...
You'd little think a yelp or bleat
Could start her; or that she was weeping
So sorely, when she thought me sleeping.
She never tells me why she fears
The pit-pat-pattering of feet
All night along the moonlit road...
Or what's the wrong that she has done...
I wonder if 't would bring her tears,
If she could know that I, her son --
A man, who never stood upright,
But all the livelong day must lie,
And watch beyond the window-pane
The swaying of the biggest crane --
That I, within its clutch, last night,
Went whirling through the starry sky.





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