The Crane

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 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, 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-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 bead: I felt her staring, as she said: "I wonder if he ever hears The pit-pat-pattering of sheep, Or smells the broken bracke stalks . . . While she is lying sound asleep Beside him . . . after all these years -- Just ninteen 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 hear 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 moonlight 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.