On a painting by Atkinson Grimshaw, ‘Liverpool Quay by Moonlight’ (1887)
Riding at anchor ships from the New World,
Cargo-less now, sway, as in a trance;
Their lights float on a mist, their sails are furled;
Fated by deep unrest to haunt the quay
Aimless pilgrims, lit by the blear gaslight,
Emerge from haze, withdrawn in reverie:
Exiles from day and night.
And at shop-windows they become transparent
To golden light that charms the brazen riches
There on display, before which they lament –
As at vain reliquaries
That hold dead sanctity. They stare at distance
Imported by a manufactured world
To allure their wasting energy and substance
By turning all to gold.
Bewitched but disenchanted lords they are,
Of a legendary treasure long since dispossessed,
Who drift with the dissolving atmosphere –
Dim shades of the lost.
Only the lamp on a black advancing coach
– Unearthly green! – can focus in reflection,
Composing all you see as you approach:
Light of the mind it stays from desolation.