CUMBERLAND BASIN
As I sit here again, such a long long time after;
Watching waters run down to the ocean once more
The names they come tramping; some swinging belongings,
Or shoulder'd in canvas: Old ghosts of before.
They journey from St Pauls, and the back of Old Market.
Some travel from Kingswood or bus from Henleaze.
Ghosts gather at Prince Street to sign for the future,
Then group at the Shakespeare, with familiar ease.
Wraiths sit in Brown's Tea Room; stand around in the Pilot
Or the pubs in the lee of Underfall yard;
Where paddles came churning each year in the springtime:
White suited and sparkling in gay promenade.
Spectres come in from Hotwells, down the hill past Hope Chapel,
Stride quick down The Cut on the Bedminster side.
As they near to the Basin all strides seem to lengthen
They're all looking to sail on the next Avon tide.
Grey stone chiselled eyes sweep along rusted freeboards
Of Coasters and Steamers that trade the deep sea.
Sam Plimsoll's still setting his margin for error
From his plinth near the site of the old Campbell's quay.
Away on the left, down towards the old tunnel,
There's a mark I remember I scored as a boy:
Where Brunel left shadows, I linked arms with his thunder.
Young tentative Trojan, besieged in his Troy.
Through the mist I see Lock Gates, open and closing.
Harnessed waters are swirling with cargo and steel.
Old uniformed customs control all the movements,
But the spirit is free, to roam where it will.
It roams down the Portway towards the great oceans.
Rounding curves as the Avon tide muddies along,
Sweeping out from the Mouth, where more shadows beckon;
Sweeping out, on the sound of a different song.
The sound of this 'Oldest Song', soft burred and rolling;
Rough-hewn from the clefts where the two rivers flow,
Could be heard on broad reaches of oceans and rivers:
Trade secrets that Trade Winds thought breezes should know.
Secrets told to young seamen still learning the lessons
That sweetened each morning and hardened each hand,
It told of a spirit that surged with the oceans
And the mute counterpoint in the stillness of land.
Old wisdom intoned in the song and its meaning:
This, 'Oldest of Songs and the Secret of Rocks.'
The secret is not just of: Means to an ending;
But the voyage itself, ere it ends at the locks.
So I sit here and contemplate Cumberland Basin.
Bristol is huddled in commerce for profit and gain.
As the sounds of the great ships, dwindle to silence:
Old ghosts join the ships and the tide ebbs again.
Reg Kear (c) 1996
