Scatter those tiny leaves,
About the restless ghostly wharf.
See angels leap laughing,
At how a swollen sky,
Cries for a maddened world.
Silence, chill of the winter,
Fast approaching merriment shall reap.
Cold hard flagstone bathes,
In fond memories of trade,
And of gutted Herring bleeding.
My ears see a tune,
As eyes hear a lonely view.
Coming again, every season changed,
Lost and found in glory,
Upon the Brayford wharf horizon.