Along roads of tree trunks and one patch of disused grass
Near a school no longer recognized,
I have found some part of what has happened in our lives.
Each day we fall, every hour, every one.
On bargained evenings with younger sorrows,
We watched the sea drain off the world.
Two fishing boats moored all our years,
Trunks that grew sympathy and despair
And the bait diggers’ mist across the sky.
Those harbourmasters started something with their Jones-keeping
And then those outsized dreams of movement.
Maybe they weren’t wrong.
You once said that we could never really be lost,
Not in our own city.
And yet those empty hulls are gone,
All fallen, every hour, every one.
