The Zong's name is tethered
by a spidersilk pilot line
to the legal duellists.
Not a goof or poobah, but a ship
surrounded by cannonball splashes
like huge rain
and grunts of effort from those growling sickness away
long enough to carry out orders, to haul
the coffee limbs of the damaged cargo,
moaning drumrolls, clawing
before the drop.
The sued insurers win: mismanaged cargo.
No £30 a submerged head.
A brief comparison to horses.
