Streets of stone and slap of sea;
a rising prow, oar’s deep dip.
The harbour is waking, rolling.
A fine fog slides up Tyne and Tees.
Stop for a tankard – make it dark;
make it another, foamy and deep
and watch the fog roll to make
the streets shiny slick.
A stone step, hobnail-ground;
rattle of a hand-cart; boy’s call,
workman’s cuss.
Arch and livery, a filling sail.
The men hurry and ropes flick.
Cargo to load, tightening hawser
Keep it up, boys, she sails at noon.