The New City

How soon this night has gathered every hill
subduing evening’s fire to a clift
between Moel Famau and this ocean chill.
The butt end of the Wirral’s cast adrift
New Brighton’s carnival !
As star specked gantries over Seaforth lift
containers for New York, do dreamers fill
their hopes with taste of honey still
where White Star liners brushed aside the swell?

When did the Aintree race trains cease to run?
Where are the trams and Austin cars?
The foundries and cheap bazaars?

Lorries speed past Bramley Dock
iron gates on sandstone block
caterpillars eating scrap
doing the demolition rap.
Here, at end of shift came many
fans of Dean and Kier Hardy
flat-cap masses homeward bound
living for a piece-rate penny.

The new possessor of this sylvan dream,
professional with pony tail, speeds
in ever bigger off road steeds,
returning to the flats and mews
burning the rubber down bare avenues.

By Dick Hayes