Gridlocked isle of my defence
you sheltered me
from French-based threats,
but by the Solent, not your ships;
great hulks of grey
with glorious names:
Invincible and Sir Galahad,
moored in time-lines,
a fine line
between naval might
and scrap.
Hidden behind the Isle of Wight
we’re refugees, you and I
based on this flat gem:
Landport, Buckland
Fratton, North End.
Where no-one asked my history;
accepted me along with all
the takeaways, tattooists,
Poundland clones and Polish shops.
The thousand Aqua Cars that mooch
beneath the Pompey tower blocks,
a post-war concrete legacy:
‘Pickwick House’ and ‘Copperfield’,
a nod to Dickens’ residency;
there’s no ‘Bleak House’, ironically.
Any port in a storm
Portsmouth, my port.
My storm now weathered,
it’s time to move on;
untether my life,
up-anchor, get gone.
I’ve been salvaged.
Battle-scarred
From PO1
TEE FRANCIS
