The Little Harwich Ferryboat Poem by C Richard Miles

The little ferryboat no longer shuttles
From Harwich harbour down to Felixstowe
And it gathers every barnacle that settles
Upon its hull to calcify and stay.
But, one long-distant day, in that hot summer,
We made our way down seaweed-gathering steps
To sit in sweltering sun, that made us simmer,
To sail across the estuary’s deeps.

The little ferryboat made gentle headway,
Across the waters, to the other side.
(That it no longer runs, we wonder yet why,
Is such a travesty, it makes us sad.)
It looked so daunted, as it drifted daily
Beside the vast, uncultured freighter ships,
Though, as we limped along, we longed to dally
To wonder at their well-constructed shapes.

The little ferryboat soon reached the dockside
And, as we disembarked, we wandered through
The Port of Felixstowe, where from the decks, heads
Peered as matelots watched us, as though
They wondered where we landlubbers we heading:
It was to see the fort at Landguard Point
But, first, we passed through forests of rough hoarding
Graffitied with crude slogans in black paint.

The little ferryboat returned to Harwich
Whilst at the town, in hunger, we sought food,
Where strolling down the front, looking at her watch,
A glamour girl accompanied over-fed
Companions who, bare-chested, flashed their muscles
Intimidating those frail skinny chaps
Whose grimaces reflected like spent missiles
And who, outclassed, just chose to gorge on chips.

The little ferryboat made one more transit,
As down the shingle beach we sauntered, still,
Beside ran railway lines, as from a train-set,
So small, to take large loads of stainless steel
And coal in cramped containers to be warehoused.
On the skyline, far, far out were boats
Which looked so distant, that their outlines were hazed
And so obscure, that we saw only bits.

The little ferryboat hailed our arrival
As we rushed on the path, since we were late
And had misjudged the time due to the revel
Of the fun we’d had, and since it still was light.
We muttered mild excuses to her master
Who told us, in a voice more deep than bass
That we’d have been in trouble if we’d missed her
Since it’s a long way round to go by bus.

The little ferryboat sailed to the harbour,
Where we ascended wearily to find
A hostelry whose landlady served her beer
As cold as ice, since thirst had made us fond
Of seeking such refreshment in the heatwave
That sizzled all that summer’s baking days
And if the weather ever gets more hot, we’ve
Reached the point where vegetation dies.

The little ferryboat itself did perish,
Like withered petals dropping from a rose,
As it was un-commercial in its parish
And charges for its upkeep had to rise
But we’ll remember, till we’re dead and buried
That day we took, for inexpensive cost,
The little boat, which served well, as it ferried
Us, to roam on Suffolk’s scenic coast.