In the old water of the dock
The safe and solid order of things continues,
Even as the creeping red fescue
Lawns on its borders stretch for attention.
Vessels from northern ports
Discharge into the arms of overtime workers,
Whose dependents expect the
Next payment to be the last, and are restless.
Two herds of swans take
Their young for a Sunday morning swim,
Disappearing once wetted
Back to the safety net of the canal basin.
Angular travellers make
A circuit inside the public’s allotted lines,
Eager to avoid the stark
Mass of Bridge Street’s vivid lithographs;
Whose webbed spans were built
To rush traffic over the water’s commotion,
But are empty today as
Folk stick to strolling over common ground,
And what space remains absolved
Of man’s gestation wastes away in harmony,
Whilst his structures take the
Strain of nature and financial gain’s failure,
And in sheds and office
Spaces business traces its family roots, but
When, with one crane lift,
A unit is removed the next is slow to replace it.