Opposite Aldi,
The flytipped woods of Cuthbert Bank.
The parapets are still proud,
Elaborate iron spikes
That once held grand lamps,
To see through the industrial smog,
Flames powered directly from the gasholders,
Stoked by coal.
The gasworks are long gone
(Joe Cocker once worked there),
Along with the terraced houses
That trembled in their shadow,
Next to a pub with smart white walls,
Trams rumbled across the sturdy arches.
The Fairfield Arms rots now,
Tidemarks on its abandoned bar
From the flood nearly twenty years ago
That broke it open and sealed its fate.
The river was too much
For the three wide spans of the bridge,
The ancient mother goddess
Bursting her banks, into everyone’s lives.
Next to the dual carriageway
That smashed down houses and pubs
In its wake of progress,
Few see the wide river Don,
Meandering towards the city centre
In its deep, walled channel.
On the far bank, a strip of woodland,
Catkins, pussy willow and holly wears the crown
At the end of winter.
Otters secretly roam this river now;
The weir downstream has a fish ladder.
A precarious alder leans over the water
Creating a v-shape in reflection,
Defiance in nature.
