Lullaby in Steerage

Listen to David Barber reading this poem.


Bright globes to pluck with a twist,
My sweet. Keep still while you can.
Stars on your kitchen tiles,
Birds that come to your hand.
Streets like shipping lanes,
Gosling: many will be yours.
Save your breath for the bandstand
Singalongs, save those tears
For the moving picture shows.
Roses threading the trellis,
Dearest, roses under your cheek
As you sink into pillow feathers,
Pearls cool on your throat.
By then your hair will be white,
My lamb. By then you won't believe
That you were ever a howling babe
Delivered up out of the sea.
By then we'll just be a story
You'll hear as you're drifting off
In your sky-blue room on visiting day,
So hush now, precious, hush.
Listen to them make us up
And tuck you into my shawl.
Listen, child, the channel buoys
Are church bells after all.

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