A walk to Seacombe Ferry in 1975 (or was it 1976?) unfinished

a strange land beckoned bright
to the child in me
across the named four bridges
which in fact were only three
unless you count of course like I
the one imaginary
that seperated like a Berlin wall
this outside world from me.

I’d never run away before
except inside a dream
a one in which I played the king
to a wicked monster queen
I’d watched in lurid colours
on black and white TV screen

but this time awake I did explore
those grey and pastures old
across the docks and past the ships
their stories left untold
and dereliction’s beauty found
in burnt brick hard and cold

to skies which looked familiar
yet somehow blue and free
from the clouds of doubt I’d known
in my uncertainty

and at the end of my quest
the river deep and wide
my restlessness not sated
when I glimpsed the other side
Marble towers like Xanadu
and domes of gleaming gold
or as it seemed to my eyes
when I was eight years old

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