At Great Homer Street market mum buys three cod loins,
getting through the stalls an uphill task on her pension.
I can smell the Mersey, even here, where all smells come to die.
Granddad says, ‘The sea is my only home.’ I never met him.
If only I was… what? Fond of hot diesel smeared on steel decks?

Birkenhead, Seacombe, New Brighton; these my Isles of the West.
Still. Here I am, always landing, becoming, ending, other.
I used to think, ‘Look at us all, my shipmates! We’re fine.’
Now they’ve closed the port to people. It’s all online.

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