APPRENTICES
Grimsby c.1880
Consigned to the hellbound lurching
of smacks, we were a back street surplus,
a poorhouse dross with tainted blood.
Worth less than slaves or cattle
that have to be bought or reared,
we were the spillage of couplings
in damp infested rooms.
A lost brood of liars and thieves,
predisposed to mischief, we were damned
from the moment our lungs cleared –
swaddled in filth and howling.
Hollow chested, intractable, we were unfit
for a uniform or even a grave
on some frittering ledge of the empire.
So fetched up here instead
in this port of outlaws, signed over
to masters whose pockets jangled coin,
but soon grew intolerant
of stubborn mumblings
and fumbled attempts at fourteen
to match the skills and muscles of men.
For each God-bothering skipper
there were plenty more who’d bait us
or look the other way when deckies,
cooks and mates tried to tame us
with ‘good natured ribbing’
that always went too far: their mock
‘executions’ and acts that ‘never happened’.
We came in our thousands to learn
the value of a rudimentary trade,
with droves absconding to the haven
we found in Lincoln Gaol: written off,
released. Others perished hauling lines,
or slipped from the rigging, barely missed,
their details logged in a spindling script.
HOMEWARD
The slow haul back you think of little else
but a stamping ground less bleak than Faroes,
Fair Isle, Viking, but still have work to do.
Scouring, swabbing and sluicing down
the gangways, decks and quarters,
you grease moving parts, while all things
that shift and roll are stowed away,
until there’s nothing out of place
to snag the agent’s curmudgeonly gaze,
or give him scope to knock back your wages…
With a lathering of cheap carbolic soap,
some aftershave and a slap of Brylcreem
you’ll scrub up yourself, good enough at least,
with cash on hip and a clean shirt,
for the tarts that shoal in shadows
around Riby Square or come across for trade
in the warm lee of certain boozers –
The Kent Arms, The Humber, the fractious
dives where ale flows freely
and mind-numbing gregariousness
absorbs the wad you’ve slaved for;
and while you’re flush you’ll pull her in,
some girl that’s caught your eye –
her hands softer than braiders’ hands,
but in their way as skilful.
DRINK
He has a way with a pint that hints
at who he is. It starts as the ale is drawn,
his eyes moving from the barmaid’s chest
to her grip on the polished wood
of the pump. Along the tilted side
of the glass, the liquid rises
as if spelling danger, or re-establishing
an equilibrium, while the over-lively froth
gushes forth like loose talk
before it drains into the slops;
and when the measure’s attained,
with a small headspace left,
she sets it up on the counter
for him to assay. He pauses briefly,
holds it up, then gives it a quarter turn,
staring into it like a talisman,
or the dark mirror that shows him
what he needs to see.
TRAWLERS
Gale-battered survivors
of distant water, they trawled
a featureless nowhere
to make ends meet.
Enduring iron cold
and routine extremes
of oceanic storm,
they hove past torpedoes,
mines, gunboats.
Sweeping channels
to keep them clear
for North Atlantic convoys,
they netted scrap
for years, ending up as pawns
in Cold War, Cod War,
and scuppering deals.
Holding their own
against the worst
that arctic skies
and deep swells muster,
they came to grief
on a creeping tide –
twelve miles, fifty
and then two hundred…
While here’s one
that’s found its anchorage
beyond breakers’ yards,
where unindentured
boys with rods
fish for tiddlers
and the Sainsbury’s trolley,
sunk for a lark, may still one day
be salvaged.