This is not really a poem, just scratched together memories of a particular day. I hope they make sense to Yo members, I'm writing from the perspective of a second man (lorry driver's assistant). The setting is North Liverpool docks on a harsh winters day, late 60's early 70's.
The copper's office was empty when we first arrived,
The lorry queues stretched the length of Regent Road,
His office being warmer than the rain outside,
I waited, drying out,-out-side a chill wind blowed.
The office door then opened with a banshee howl,
And closed with a bang, the rain soaked copper appeared,
"Docks are empty, you'll be lucky. What's your goods?" he growled,
40 cartons, left side shoes, my note declared.
"It's all handball, needs a checker, can I try inside?"
He nodded,and I made my way towards the quay,
Desolate, a ghost town, but on the bleak dock side,
Stood three metal containers, something new to me.
There were handles, so I opened a container door,
To shouts of "Get inside, it's blowing up a storm"
Quay foreman and half a dozen stevedores,
Playing cards and drinking, trying to stay warm.
One docker volunteered to come and check our freight,
The empty shed doors rattled, rain lashed and chimed,
Unloaded, clean receipt, we stopped at North dock gate,
The copper said "No dock workers since dinner time."
The night-like afternoon lit up in violet rays,
A building struck by lightning on the Regent Road,
The upstairs of a pub - suddenly ablaze,
The copper dialed 999, inferno glowed.
The sound of pub doors opening and howls and cries,
Regent road was crowded as the copper stared,
An act of God disrupting dockers dinner time,
It's 5 'o' clock, near midnight on the Liver bird.
Dedicated to my mate Hank Walters (Ralph)