The Wreck of the Coorong
Posted: Mon Apr 25, 2011 8:24 pm
The Wreck of the Coorong
Down by the shore the crowd patiently waited,
searching the sky for the flying boat— Coorong,
and way in the south-east wind gusts, oscillated,
with rattles of thunder that pealed loud and long.
First a speck and the sound of engines droning,
they stood and watched the plane come into view;
she banked around and passed over the city
she’d arrived, at last— her Australian debut .
Down— blunt nose down— in a glide to the harbour,
her underbelly glistened; over sullen waves she flew,
and with creaming, bow wash, slid up to her mooring
and by five-thirty was safely moored by her crew.
Three cheers, the mail-route from England was open,
and celebrations— at the Darwin, G.P.O;
whilst above the sky flashed white with lightning;
and with gale force winds, a mighty storm, did blow.
Mighty fists hammered, and shook her port side,
thin squalling clawed fingers tugged all around;
then just after nine; the mooring lines parted
and with a jerk, she was off, down-harbour-bound
The heightening gale unleashed all its fury
screeching and wailing sounds— demented warlocks;
and quickly a gust smashed her nose into a landing—
shifted the hull and tailplane up onto rocks.
The Navy and bystanders rushed to her aid;
they tied rope strops, braced her as best as could be.
To no avail, the cyclone bounced and ground her;
by morning, she lay, back broken, down by the quay.
Assessors reported she was badly damaged,
she was modern, and beyond-local-repair.
So, she was cut up and shipped back to England;
our first flying boat to deliver mail by air.
John Macleod
Down by the shore the crowd patiently waited,
searching the sky for the flying boat— Coorong,
and way in the south-east wind gusts, oscillated,
with rattles of thunder that pealed loud and long.
First a speck and the sound of engines droning,
they stood and watched the plane come into view;
she banked around and passed over the city
she’d arrived, at last— her Australian debut .
Down— blunt nose down— in a glide to the harbour,
her underbelly glistened; over sullen waves she flew,
and with creaming, bow wash, slid up to her mooring
and by five-thirty was safely moored by her crew.
Three cheers, the mail-route from England was open,
and celebrations— at the Darwin, G.P.O;
whilst above the sky flashed white with lightning;
and with gale force winds, a mighty storm, did blow.
Mighty fists hammered, and shook her port side,
thin squalling clawed fingers tugged all around;
then just after nine; the mooring lines parted
and with a jerk, she was off, down-harbour-bound
The heightening gale unleashed all its fury
screeching and wailing sounds— demented warlocks;
and quickly a gust smashed her nose into a landing—
shifted the hull and tailplane up onto rocks.
The Navy and bystanders rushed to her aid;
they tied rope strops, braced her as best as could be.
To no avail, the cyclone bounced and ground her;
by morning, she lay, back broken, down by the quay.
Assessors reported she was badly damaged,
she was modern, and beyond-local-repair.
So, she was cut up and shipped back to England;
our first flying boat to deliver mail by air.
John Macleod