1.
Lots of rain and one dry walk
In a town wedded to water:
River, ship canal, estuary
And a pathway at Albert Basin
Where I meet the docker, fused
With the tackle of his trade
Into a single metal entity,
He points his rope-rifle at an angle to emptiness
Steep enough to evoke
Coasters berthing, in haloes of steam
In what is now mid-air
And a distant skyline, but it was,
Back in the day,
The nerve centre of the town.
2.
Tautness of the docker’s sawn-off rope
Evokes the weight within a day
Of winching, carrying
And digging out hills
Of coal, and stone.
Weight within a day,
Measured in tons.
If it was capped by camaraderie
And a brief buoyancy of spirit
As a shift was ending,
Mainly it was misery
And drudgery. Hardship.
A passport to an early grave
Or living in an aftermath
With aching limbs.
Bread on the table
But dust in the lungs,
Living in the shadow
Of a stolen youth.
Mainly it was men
Whose blighted lives laid down
Allowed a town to prosper,
And mainly it was women
Working fingers to the bone
To keep the home afloat.
3.
Lots of rain and a dry twilight
For strolling on Albert Basin.
Buildings bolted against the night.
St. Mary’s Church and environs,
In a darkening vista,
Two lights come on like eyes.
The gulls as water audible,
Straws in the wind
Of the width of what lies beyond:
Ocean’s restive massiveness
Weighing in from the side.
Somehow, I see the docker
Slip free of his frozen frame
And share a quip
With invisible friends,
A lightness that laced them
As a ship departed.
Now the ships are gone forever,
Taking the dockers with them
And a metal man remains
Taking aim at empty space
Where a world was washed away
By a force that outflows water.
Paul Murray has had poems published in the Poetry Ireland Review and Agenda Poetry Magazine.