For your C & C
(again the bits between asterics (almost the whole poem!) *are to be read as
if in italics.*)

In The Dock In Wallsend

*It’s only here I believe in ghosts,* Big Steve says
as he takes a sip, speaks quietly, his back to the bar.
*And these days I know I look like him in the photographs
my Mam has in the drawer below the model we’ve kept
that he returned to each time he was laid off –
some Clan Line Freighter he and Grandad helped build –
and he’d hunch over it in silence for hours.
It took years to complete, getting things just right.
And it’s the same length as him, too heavy for Mam,
so I dust it when I call by, polish the brass.
He was canny with his hands, kind once
in a while, but a real bastard when drunk.
All those pints and chasers on launch days
before he’d turn round on our doorstep
and yell down the road at the gap in the sky.
Then barge into my bedroom, “Son,” he’d say,
“if I ever find ye in a pub ah’ll kill ye.”
The last time I saw him was on the day he died
when he just looked back as if wanting to speak.
But he never did.*  And Chris downs his 80/-,
says, *So,* - then knocks back the Teachers –
*on the odd time I come here, I always watch the door.*


Bob Cooper

"80/-" (pronounced "Eighty Shillings" is a beer.
"Teachers" (ironically named, perhaps) is a whisky.
Oh, and "The Dock" is a pub named after, wouldja believe, the docks!)



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