Harland & Wolff Welders

Harland & Wolff Welders

In Belfast’s dock where Harland & Wolff looms,
The welders raise their arms against the steel,
With oxy‑acetylene’s bright blue plumes,
They trace each seam where mighty hulls will feel.
The night erupts in sparks, a golden rain,
That paints the slip‑way with a fleeting fire,
Each bead a promise, forged through toil and strain,
A quiet hymn that sings the ship’s desire.
Their labour, steady as the tide’s own pull,
Is etched in rivets, in the groan of plate,
The organisation hums, a rhythm full,
Of programme, purpose, and unyielding fate.
When dawn breaks grey over the Lough’s thin sheen,
The welded hull awakes, a beast of dream.