Portrait of a Chief Engineer
This poem is dedicated to the memory of Peter Irving Listen to: Portrait of a Chief Engineer He resembled an orchestra's conductor, Our beloved, double-headed* chief engineer. A grafter, trained in shipyards; decent and fair, He was the heart of all that we held dear. When the engine room roared with raucous sound, And his machinery beat its loud tattoo, It held a rhythmic melody he loved, The harmony, and rhythm of the screw. He was Cammell Laird’s man, both born and bred, A quiet one, that none dared muck about; The Chief's dismay would linger on a man, Like the morning after a night on the stout. Down in the pit beside our beating heart, He'd stand as a maestro would practice his score, Amid the woodwind section, strings and brass, Damning the fuel pump that played out of tune. He’d prowl among the engines day and night, And tap and flick at a fluttering gauge, To harmonise the sections to play as one, Like the maestro, the master of the stage. In fan-blasted heat and fu