IRON POET

The Song of Pyrocumulon

You could expect a citadel in a cloud
To sing serenely 'round its central spire;
To sigh hymns suited best for shrine or shroud,
Soft solemn symphonies for flute and lyre.

No, Pyrocumulon is built on fire
And steam and iron! The City's cry
Can rival rushing locomotive's ire
Or meet a roaring dragon eye-to-eye.

This joyous racket rings the clearing sky...
The homecoming restores the music lost
To time and mist. The vibrant new notes fly
from those returned. The song is worth the cost.

The bright metallic melodies now wend,
Again, through City's streets without an end!

Kathryn Payne M498