Manly Ferry   Too frail to fly, I may not see again The harbour that I crossed on the South Steyne When I was still in short pants. All the boys Would gather at the rail that ran around The open engine-room. The oil, the noise Of rocking beams and plunging rods: it beat Even the view out from the hurdling deck Into the ocean. The machinery Was so alive, so beautiful, so neat.   Years later the old ferries disappeared, Except for the South Steyne, which looked intact Where she was parked at Pyrmont, though a fire Had gutted…