At its mouth the River Hull

Is now so shallow and wide

A mere central trickle until

Filled by the spilling tide,

Surging in from bank to bank

Submerging expanses of mud

To become a river that explains why

This is where the Old Docks stood.

Once it was said you could walk

From bank to bank with dry feet

On the decks of barges moored

A sort of floating bustling street.

Undredged for years so that now

Banks of silt have grown so high

They form a plain of wet mud to

Glisten, shine, and catch the eye.

The river now is empty apart

From the odd grounded barge

So that on the East Bank

An air of desolation looms large.

On the West once warehouses

Are now a residential quarter

Mixed with Old Town Museums

Glass eyed to look over the water.

Bridges that would once paralyse 

The town, opening at high tide

To let cargoes through making 

Journeys home a weary ride,

Are now seldom raised.

An area of disuse and despair.

The old Arctic Ranger lies

Moored and marooned there.

Of our once proud fishing fleet

This is the very last, 

A floating museum

Exhibit to our fishing past.

Down the Humber new docks thrive;

Perhaps that ever was the way.

The new grows and expands while

The old is left to moulder and decay.

The City they say thrives,

But in such different ways

And little by little they erase 

Any trace of our past days

And the river continues

To flow on and on 

Its vital past now becoming

Forgotten and long gone.