Liverpul

Stand on the Cast Iron Shore
under a star warmed sky
listen
for the soft-slap of bare feet
on mudflats
worked by beaker people
sense
the shape of coracles
ready to ride a thirty foot tide
hear
the creak of oars on oil-black water
a monk cursing
as his cassock falls overboard
startled by hunting horns
echoing across
an unpolluted
Mersey.

By C. Promir