ramblings and things
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.