A scholar and a gentleman
once led a boy to an iron-clad shore
past cavernous domes of smoke and fire
where steam-wreathed beasts snorted
and hissed, into a wind-whipped hall
where for threepence a bag
fresh-roasted chestnuts could be had
from the toothless man
with the leather-skinned smile.
Proudly showing tickets to the peak-capped man down, down the rivetted ramp he runs
out onto the floating stage that reels
and rocks to every wave drunk
on the smell of oil and brine.
A gallery of flustered gulls wheels out
swirls over chilly choppy water while he,
safe in the lee of that great black coat
finds cavernous pockets to explore.
He now recalls tales of storms, of cattle
disgorging into blackened tombs
where gore-filled gutters met
the slopping, gulping swell
that under every arch and stanchion
gagged and glugged.
Close by, the priory tower –
stubby black pencil pointing to God,
ready for His dictation but mocked
by the spiky thicket of shipyard cranes
feeding the clamouring, hammering nests
where ships of war were hatched and grew-
great ships that on launching slipped
dragging umbilical chains
into the river’s deep embrace – Alabama,
Great Eastern, Ark Royal – great ships
that loomed over dingy drizzled streets
where grit caught the throat of crowds
cheering beneath the camel’s sign,
images for a bedroom wall.
The chill like a tide licks his toes
rising to meet wind-chapped knees.
They spy out together the gutsy red funnel
fighting the tide along an arc of the sea
nosing wavelets into gushes of salty foam, smoothing the swell as she sweeps
towards the shore like a queen.
He strains to read the name – Mountwood, Overchurch or Woodchurch – wild horse
to be restrained by groaning ropes that twist against the power of the moon pythons
hauled by sweatered Woodbine men
with Popeye arms and tough smiles
long ago seduced by the sea,
drawing down a rattle of chains
to the clanking gangway sliding into place.
Two hundred feet close in to cross a void,
a surge released
across the spumy, broiling gap
that could swallow a small boy whole –
hold tight to the gleaming brass,
put your collar to the wind and scamper
to the top deck, put your back
against the red funnel proud
against wheeling gull and racing cloud.
To a blast of horn heard wide on the breeze
the shore recedes gliding into a blurry streak
of blue-grey as with each throbbing pulse
and slap of spray his attention shifts closer
to those proud and mighty birds
that first pecked his heartstrings
all those years ago
and carry them to this day.
Lea’s poetry 