by John Hartley
Nothing much happens
Sometimes. Your hush says it all.
We huddle together;
Heels kicking holes in the wall.
It smells like the river
Has washed up the back of beyond;
While love-lettered liners
Are bringing folk home from the sun.
Though we are all at sea,
You and me, lost in a myth,
There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
No-one I’d rather be with.
Image credit: “Low Light, North Shields Fish Quay, North Tyneside” by Glen Bowman is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
