Pompey Love
Always third in line –
never really intended
such was my birth –
I am long disinherited
Time is our slipway –
greased for each build
It is a steep incline
for those low on love’s skills
Champagne in ribbons
burst on the bow
and then a spunked wave
to please the crowd
‘How long will it float?’
is not to be whispered –
‘Don’t curse the crew
an’ all who sail on er’
Their shouldered terrace –
my parents’ first home
still waiting to slip
into the port’s lapped foam
Across that hinterland
a tide of just-weds –
the wives of submariners –
a choice none understood
One night of holding
before his boat steamed –
it was sweated and lugged
til he heard her scream
The rude gulls returned
when ships broke the Atlantic –
they pull from tipped bins
a seamen’s tossed prophylactic.