I’m a ten-tonne disappearing gun,
named after Captain Moncreiff, my ingenious inventor.
This stone-walled pit was once my home, now it serves as my memorial.

I used to squat, hunkered down, out of sight:
cast iron tonnage resting on a narrow, circular tread,
lying in wait, tensely poised, binding my time.

Once summoned, I would swivel into leathal action.
A couple of cranks and I’d straighten my metal legs, and spring to attention
my nose above the parapet, poking out to sea.

Then, the screeching of an order from the rear: “Fire!”

As the missile hurtles towards its target,
the recoil throws me back into the pit, safely out of sight,
thanks to the beautiful efficiency of weight and counterweight.

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert thought the French navy was too big
and too threatening,
so we were forged en masse, and strategically placed along the coastline.

Today, having never been fired in anger, I lie disregarded,
too heavy to be moved, rusting, slowly disintegrating.
Eventually, when I reunite with the soil, my disappearance will be complete.