The old docks are back to life these days.
Along the quays where the old sheds stood
There's now timber stacked high ready to go.
An old Russian boat was loading with wood
Yesterday as I drove by, the cranes working.
Soon she would untie to motor down the dock
To catch next high water so that she could
Slip into the river, sliding through the lock
Down the Humber, on to the waiting North Sea.
The Pilot would take her to the river's mouth
Through the shifting channels and on safely to
Where she can choose to go East, North or South.
They have built a new fish market on the dock
Taking the landings, now from Icelandic boats
Or transferred at sea from the leased Russians
To be brought inshore leaving them out afloat
And working. Native fisherman cost too much
To employ in these days of food on the cheap:
Those not yet dead are mostly too old or
if not, kept on the permanent scrap heap,
(Cheap spies aren't needed any more
Now there's no longer any cold war)
Or working in different trades.
The fisherman's life all but gone
For times soon change;
The world moves on.
This port is now thriving,
New fortunes being made,
So who gives a damn
For the old fishing trade.