The Sinking Of Polly Poem by Barney Rooney

Larch planks once swelled with pride
held tight against the Mersey tide
canvas filled to rippled edge
she strained her shrouds
to heel beneath the east bound clouds
making headway on a brisk spring day
when boats like this were not for play
but for cold wet work and meagre pay

beyond use she turned to old men with time to hand
to patch and mend where wood has given way
beneath the layered paint of blue
or any other hue that comes to hand
from sundry half tins rimmed with rust
layered thick but paint is never thick enough
to stand the footfall of time
when old men, similarly defined, still care
but old mens love or legs or breath
can no more raise to life
old wood once dead
than raise themselves
cannot swell these planks to water tight
til Polly takes her fill of life
slips below to lie abed
in Fiddlers Ferry yacht haven
her final dock
beyond the lock that weeps
where the River Mersey meets
the atrophied St Helens Canal