ramblings and things

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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.




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The River Hull At Its Mouth