I remember nights of roaring surf,
The long rods nodding with the pull,
Watching in the hiss and glare of pressure lamps,
Waiting with my father, for the fish to run.
There is a five bar gate,
white, by a woodland track
where, half a century back,
we talked till evening late.
On the trailing edge of winter, pale light led me
To the cut, where alder and bowed willow stand
Reflected in the greys and browns of long waiting,
While winter burdened boats slack at their ropes.
Tall the abbey tower,
Now with no bell to call
Through a perfect arch to nowhere,
But a crumbling abbey wall.
Ahead, in rain, the morning surges
With brake lights on the dual carriageway;
Around a slight curve traffic crushes
Yellow blinking to the outside lane.