A life spent near that river,
Always there, at his back.
From a teenage office boy
To an old man, always at his back.
What he sold came up that river
To be refined, made ready.
The Pier Head, his base,
His start, to drive his Morris Minor
Across the North with
Samples in bottles, cotton wool wrapped.
The Mersey, that massive weather vane
Of the British rise and fall, he saw it all,
The freighters, the tankers, the convoys.
And later, its emptiness,
A backdrop to his life.
And now he´s gone, dead,
Turned to grey ash.
No better place for him to be
But in that river.
We stand, three generations by that river.
I climb the railings and then,
Down the slippery stone steps
I carry him towards that flow
And then, with the ebbing tide,
I release him, like fry,
Back to where we all came from.