A grey warship reflected in dark blue.
Couples who calmly bill and coo,
both hetero and homo;
plus what by any water you always find:
an old geezer at the end of his line.
This is where we felt at home.
The planking had seen better days. The warship
permanently docked, refashioned
as a catering school.
The waves lap. The cub cooks laugh.
Disappearing round the curve, barges plough
swift and smooth.
This is where we used to come, he and I.
My friend who adored water of any kind,
as I do too – well, sort of.
Now, all that has been and gone, disappeared, passed on.
Why do the lapping waves taunt me so?
Why do they tell tall stories?
To be and to go; that’s what water is for.
To come here sober was no good at all –
I should have got pie-eyed.
What is ‘here and now’ was ‘later’ then.
So I stare dully at a concrete skeleton.
The pier has disappeared.