The Rig

by Iain Twiddy

If people can live on an oil rig
drilled in to the middle of the sea –
like a rickety metal spider,

braced and craned, cranked, straining-platformed,
like landing gear on a distant planet,
or a pond-skater sunk to its knees

in mud, the tides tugging at the feet,
wind the only solid thing in sight
jerking like vultures at a carcass –

if men can work there, leeching the earth,
the sea as deep as the air above,
like walking outside without trousers;

if men can sleep suspended above
the bed, the cold their only blanket,
when one deep lurch could bring the whole thing

matchsticking down, one spark flood the sky
with a ravenous cataclysm
as the oil spurts like an artery,

then surely I can dig in a bit
longer here, with less of an anchor,
until the reason begins to flow clear.