High Point from the Hay Day
A sturgeon swims
the night sky
feeding on stars
as if they were fry,
the quick flick
of its upper tail lobe
sends river mist
billowing up the bank,
devours the remains
of the staithes,
the bridge dissolves
into the echo
of a bark
from a hidden foy-boat,
a port light’s rosette
on black water,
from downstream
a ghost tug’s horn
knocks on fog’s door
helps timelines
slip their moorings:
all the houses, yards,
alleys, pubs
have vanished
into waste ground and rubble,
cow parsleys wave
tattered white flags
growing through cracks
in torn tarmac
and from the corner
of Cross Street
poor pale Polly
stands beckoning,
she wants to tell you
how she died,
then she turns
to lead you into
the burnt-out wreck
of The Ship.
