On Charles Street,
A terraced part of town,
A woman shouted
Another one's gone down.
Ross Cleveland had broached
Turned side over
As she was running
For safer cover.
No survivors
All hands lost.
January and February 
Imposed a terrible cost:

St Romanus, Kingston Peridot
The other two lost at sea,
Ross Cleveland being 
The last of the three:
In the city being known
For ever after
As that dread
Triple Trawler Disaster.
Charles Street terraces 
All long pulled down
We are no longer
A fishing town.

The Hessle Road 
Community all scattered
People forget how 
Much fishing mattered.
Bobbers no longer clatter
Down Subway Street,
Steel toed clogs
On their feet.
Three Day Millionaires
Are no more
Their descendent work
Now safer on shore.

The old docks filled
The lock pits gone
Time has moved
Inexorably on.
But I will never forget
That Charles Street walk,
The womens' crying,
The sad, muted talk.
Nearly fifty years since
That fateful morn
But that memory won't
Leave me alone.