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.