ramblings and things
1,302,329 poems read
post cod war blues, November 1991
St Andrews fish dock has been closed down
for there's barely a fleet to sail from the town
the old lock gates where the trawlers queued
to land for the markets are no longer used
a metalled road runs over the lock
and no water runs between river and dock
buildings are tumbled or razed to the ground
and its quiet and eerie with only the sounds
of the water and wind and shrieks of the gulls
this Sunday morning in the old docks of Hull
it's forlorn and deserted and so cold and bleak
I'll cuddle the fire for the rest of the week
but I need to watch it as it finally goes
I need to remember so my kids will know
they've filled one dock in with mud and sand
there's probably a subsidy for reclaiming land
and thrown up warehouses and the usual shops
to erase our past so one history stops
there's a bowling alley to practice ten-pin
and as much fast food as you can cram in
this is the future and it's brash and it's bold
this is the era of grab all you can hold.
it's taken my city and torn out it's soul
for there's no pride in claiming the dole
they say this is progress and progress is all
so bugger the memories of those on the Gaul
and bugger the hardships and bugger the pain
and bugger the families who'll never see again
the pride and the swagger of the trawler wage earner
or the newly wise eyes of the young deckie learner
there's no more last beers and fast taxi rides
to jump from the lock as she sails with the tide
now it's heaven bless the poor and heaven bless the sick
and heaven bless the slow and heaven bless the thick
and heaven bless those with their backs to the wall
whilst for the few winners it's bugger you all
for there's barely a fleet to sail from the town
the old lock gates where the trawlers queued
to land for the markets are no longer used
a metalled road runs over the lock
and no water runs between river and dock
buildings are tumbled or razed to the ground
and its quiet and eerie with only the sounds
of the water and wind and shrieks of the gulls
this Sunday morning in the old docks of Hull
it's forlorn and deserted and so cold and bleak
I'll cuddle the fire for the rest of the week
but I need to watch it as it finally goes
I need to remember so my kids will know
they've filled one dock in with mud and sand
there's probably a subsidy for reclaiming land
and thrown up warehouses and the usual shops
to erase our past so one history stops
there's a bowling alley to practice ten-pin
and as much fast food as you can cram in
this is the future and it's brash and it's bold
this is the era of grab all you can hold.
it's taken my city and torn out it's soul
for there's no pride in claiming the dole
they say this is progress and progress is all
so bugger the memories of those on the Gaul
and bugger the hardships and bugger the pain
and bugger the families who'll never see again
the pride and the swagger of the trawler wage earner
or the newly wise eyes of the young deckie learner
there's no more last beers and fast taxi rides
to jump from the lock as she sails with the tide
now it's heaven bless the poor and heaven bless the sick
and heaven bless the slow and heaven bless the thick
and heaven bless those with their backs to the wall
whilst for the few winners it's bugger you all
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
post cod war blues, November 1991
post cod war blues, November 1991