As we reached the top of the paternoster

I saw the red sign warning us to alight –

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Berrigan,

As we lurched on, into the darkness.

When the lift reached the highest point of

Its trajectory, it began to go down once more,

And just as it did so a door appeared

Which I hadn’t noticed before. I’d scarcely

Had time to read the words NO ENTRY,

When Berrigan shoved me through it

Then jumped in behind,

As the paternoster continued its course:

The place we came to was strangely dark.

On the waterfront at Wivenhoe,

Just down from the Rose and Crown,

Lies a busy boatyard, where in winter

They boil the dark brown pitch to caulk their boats;

As they cannot sail, here, between pints, they toil:

Some build new boats, bending the planks into

Shape with steam, others repair old ones,

Plugging the broken boards

                                   with fibreglass,

Some hammer at the prow, some at the stern,

Some make oars, some mend the sails.

Here, too, but heated by a thermoelectric

Ring, not a camping gas, a sticky brown soup

Boiled away in an industrial-sized vat,

All smeared round the rim with sticky residue.

I peered into it, but saw nothing there,

Only the huge bubbles, which rose and fell.