The Bay

there are stormclouds over Dublin
like dreams edged out to sea
following winds to Liverpool
to where they’ll wait for me
there’s waves upon the Mersey
and in them live the notes
sung by poets long since drowned
under their ferry boats
wrecked on the banks of Woodside
below the priory stones
they’ll find my verses yellowing
beside my restless bones

I followed swans (the boathouse)

at twilight’s end
I follow swans
into the stones
where ghosts had longed
to live before
their spirits waned
a boathouse ruined
long disdained,
upon the lake
of reveries
which tempted
from my memories
broken thoughts
of loves forgot
and of those
that I knew not,
but time is ended
love is gone
into the mists
like mourning swans
now the dark boathouse
alone remains
to shelter dreams
from waking rains.

Early Scrawlings Of The Geographically Questionable Mersey Poet

I went down to Morpeth Dock
to hear the gun greet one o’clock
the cannon balls whizzed overhead
and landed deep in Birkenhead
they knocked the head off old man Laird
which shocked a watching Liverbird
who’d fell asleep upon his train
and ended up in old Green Lane
so resigned to use the tunnel bus
he’d stuck around to see the fuss
of statues being blown asunder
with shock and awe and sense of wonder
before he took the Kingsway home
and back up upon his perch alone
as his judy was out on the lash
with a diddy man from Knotty Ash
who wasn’t all that small at all
as she’d found out at old Speke Hall.
Anyhow I do digress
and apologise now for all this mess
of song and rhyme and disconnection
It just came out upon reflection.