He looks beyond the Mersey estuary,
His boots are worn, but his feet are unscathed,
Leisurely he walks along the empty Liverpudlian
A flock of seagulls disperses in the dismal sky.
Birkenhead lays hidden in the drizzle.
There is rust in the air and decadence in the water.
Dogs revolve the trash of a power that no longer is.
Dreams of glory and domination are long gone.
Only the phantoms of the great clippers remain.
The empire no longer arrives in containers, the empire
In the back streets Asians and Africans have a Scouser
Decay and violence rule where Victorian order once
Bands of Japanese tourists soak cut-price nostalgia.
The city dwellers offer no inspiration to the lone
Still, sounds of bagpipes recall his native Lusitania.
His Celtic id would feel at home just across the Irish