North Sea Rig Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Moonpool fills with moon
North Sea crinkles like tinfoil
Waves smack at the rig’s metallic legs.

Greasy fingers stack the doped up pipes
In semis and jack ups workers dream
Of Santas who’ll never visit their Xmas trees.

Beneath the rig’s tall crown
Even asleep, the rousties strut the catwalks
The engineer is trapped inside his doghouse
The derrick man is high on his monkey board
Dreaming of smoko shack at the end of shift.

Roughnecks toss in their bunks
Counting the hours like rosaries
That lead to the helideck, the ‘copters whirring blades
When they’ll struggle ashore to place
A victory flag on their personal mound of Venus.

Pipes however, fantasies of leaving their murky fathoms
They yearn for meltdown, steely transformation
Of being reconstructed as fencing rapiers
Fishing forks, Art Nouveau, or Jacuzzi taps.