Sep 12 2017

Of John and Liverpool Docks



the hulk of a crane
the spider’s web tracery of girders against a pre-dawn sky.
the swell of the waves
their gentle lapping against the pier.
the forlornness of a seagull’s cry.
the mournful sounds of a ferryboat; the hooting of a tug,
come floating- ghostlike-with the sea mist,
which now is vanishing as the sun’s first rays finally show
and bring warm colours. grey is dismissed.


the silence is going.
the world once again comes to life as movement stirs the peace.
soon, ticking like clocks with vibrant energy,
sleep is brushed from tired eyes
and work begins again down at liverpool’s docks.


john sits in his car,
the dulcet throb of his twin exhausts permeates the aura of placidity
that still survives the onset of morning.
thru’ the dockyard gates he roars,
anxious not to be late,
to be in time for the mocking chime
of his office clock; the clock
that watches and stipulates
the duration he must stay… in his office…
….the coffin that he hates.


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