[Sylvia Fairley]

The lift’s overloaded – squeeze in a few more
and swing to the rhythm: ‘Keep clear of the door!’
The notice says ‘Limit: two tons' - we don’t care
as we reach for the button marked 13th floor.

The lift starts to rise, then it shudders and tips,
for the cable has snapped and the cabin is hurled
down the shaft like a rocket to earth, and beyond
to the stygian depths of the underworld.

The ferryman waits in his skiff for our souls
as we eagerly clamber aboard in a crowd,
till it lists and it lurches and sinks like a stone
and we’re wrapped in the grip of a watery shroud.

So now we are shades who inhabit the earth
in the desolate realm where the dark river runs;
on the surface there floats, from the wreck of the boat,
unheeded, the warning sign: ‘Limit; two tons.’