Dawn No longer dreaming but not yet conscious, like a sleeper turning in her quilt, the river sheds its night skin, indigo dance round streetlights now a pale waltz, memories that lap the silt – dredged channel, teeming quay: hogsheads, timber, the rumble of wagons, creak of hoists – replaced by the drone of sixteen-wheelers bound for Heysham. Mike Barlow iv. |