Dockers Quay
Sparks that leap like magma,
Oxyacetalene dreams of fortune,
And a cold sandwich left.
The rumble of boots at dawn,
Tirelessly coming again.
Screeching foundry singing,
What joy for more steel,
And the constant chatter.
Bawdy lads cursing all and,
The frittered quid on ‘Daisy’,
Who was like a lame nag.
Is the water lapping,
At the empty quay now ?
Waiting against desperation,
For the trundle of casters,
And the magnum of gold.
Dedicated to Matt Simpson. ‘I hope I read well’ !
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