Morning Work

A gang of labourers on the piled wet timber That shines blood-red beside the railway siding Seem to be making out of the blue of the morning Something faery and fine, the shuttles sliding,

The red-gold spools of their hands and faces shuttling Hither and thither across the morn's crystalline frame Of blue: trolls at the cave of ringing cerulean mining, And laughing with work, living their work like a game.