Grey Sea

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Filthy Laugh

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Stood on millennium walkways and jubilee highways and kiosks
The stoic hum of Camel Laird and its view of tall decadence, red cranes and thrashy Irish sea
We left our bikes at Vale Park and I led us to the house where my father was a child
By myself, on another ride, I crawled for miles through the red suburbs, the Sunday woods by the hospital
And down all the roads that fed me to places I once needed to be
What did he dream, what did they dream?

Out upon the grey sea, gale blowing then withholding
On the straight between skies we throw our nets and lines

It takes a daytrip to Flint to step outside of yourself, though we always suspected others watch us
You can see Heswall, where there is a pub named after John Ravenscroft
We became stranded there once at midnight
And we wondered whether we would have to walk all the way home

When the wash is roaring, it takes you, tries to break you
Off the banks that beckon, we pull to the shoreline again

One of these boats moored by Meols Dunes belongs to my kin
My grandfather knew not which vessel but told me it made voyages to Anglesey and he was among its crew
He was my age when that juttering engine brought him to a near coast made exotic by circumstance
What did he dream, what did they dream?

See the far lights singing; dry underwear and beers in
And you sleep a long night but still sway on where you lie

Perhaps it is he who first taught me the value of what is near, who we are
And the fear of places far, that we cannot see from the prom, where we may not belong

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