{ Gillian Clarke: City. }
Sep. 5th, 2009 10:57 amCity
by Gillian Clarke
First, perhaps, we should view it across water,
passing two islands on a surging tide -
just short of the greatest ride and fall in the world.
Our ship would pitch where the sea wrestles the Severn,
muscular with rain from heart and hinterland,
sullen with slag and silky river silts.
Whoever they are, whatever tongue they speak,
from what continent, what distant island,
they crossed an ocean to help make the city.
Rounding the headland a hundred years ago,
most of them frozen, feverish, seasick, heartsick,
rolling up channel into the throat of the Severn,
they'd see the clock tower of the City Hall,
rumoured white buildings between broad avenues,
parkland and pleasure grounds beside the Taff.
For me it was 'let's pretend', lying awake
to the blink and sob of the Breaksea lightship,
my trip on the paddle steamer to Ilfracombe
a voyage from Africa, the Cardiff Queen
smashing the evening sea to smithereens,
a coming home made glamorous by dream
to a city we'd imagined into being.
Seeing's believing, believing's seeing.