Looking down from the heights of this old Clifton terrace,
Just a glance that is stolen as Rownham descends
From the softness of woodland to the hub of the harbour,
Where the glorious bustle of journeys would end.
In the old grey stone chapel they gather the memories,
Of Cumberland Basin where ship's engines would wait,
An old resting place, known to all the world's seamen,
Laying quietly now, just an old Watergate.
Living memories still linger, as words all come tumbling
Like small feet in scuffed shoes and numbers in rhyme,
Train trips to the seaside where shops are no longer,
Like faces who've made their own journey through time.
Making legends and memories the big ships went sailing
With white sails on tall masts and whistles that gleamed,
Hero’s names shaping history and little boy's wishes,
Sailing round in the teacups, holding yesterday's dream.
From the chapel the tracing and pathways go reaching,
Seeking out ancient corners of old streets and sounds,
All these moments are gathered and shared at the table
Mixed with biscuits and teacakes, the smiles pass around
Though journeys went downstream across the great oceans,
Most memories were fashioned in homes where they're still
Adding rhythms and colours to Bristol's old story
And the memories are treasured on Hope Chapel Hill.
Reg Kear © 2000. Australia,.
