The pier was dimly lit
by a light of asphalt green
upon the morning chill.
The tide high
and greyly heaving
spumed the troops
one by one
into the damp bittered dawn.

I saw you there that day.
Your hair stringed with rain,
lashes sharply lifting,
arms aside apart.

But he wasn't there today.

Dead, dead many times before;
soft blood flowing quietly,
breaking down the cobbled way.

Cold, cold;
no longer seen
living through the moorings,
the sirens and the death.

07/28/2005

Author's Note: For many years, the passenger ferries between Liverpool and Belfast also carried British troops to and fro. This poem was written on such a journey.

Posted on 07/28/2005
Copyright © 2024 Peter Humphreys