A league from Hoole is Westminster Bridge,
Ellesmere Port. Like Wordsworth, I composed on it.
The brick replica replaced the level
crossing, after the Borough had built
the Civic Hall in the boom time: Shell, Vauxhall,
overspill estates – a working class city.
Jobs went, the bridge stayed, no one made jokes.
The high street, strait, terraced, encompassed
all: Big Mac and sometimes on Sundays
Russian sailors window-shopping. Before me,
framed by the TSB and the Loyalist
Club lay the M53: beyond,
the Mersey – silent, still.