Slowly up the Mersey
This was the gorgeous East to us:
a place accessible by sea,
a sea much given to choppiness,
as we learned as we sat in a heaving lounge
that pitched and plunged.
Past the lightship, things got better.
The estuary took us in,
shutting the door on the storm behind us,
stilling the restless poltergeist
who'd made so free with the crockery.
It was like recovering from a fever,
walking on unsteady legs,
teetering past the sick-room smells,
the louring ghosts
of undigested breakfasts.
We took a turn on deck.
The wind chilled our sweat-wet brows
while New Brighton passed like a dream.
Further up, the mythic towers
shimmered in the haze.
Then it was getting the luggage
and the excitement of the gangplanks.
It was like arriving in the world.
The Beatles were on Tango cans,
the ferries crossed the Mersey,
and our Great Auntie Cilla knew George’s mother.
Everything was fab and gear,
it was a very good year,
it was 1965
and we felt fine.
|