The Light of Day A city built on trade, sea passage, risk, slavers who laundered wealth with sugar, coffee, timber, rum, while down between the Gambia and the Caribbean dark cargoes, lost to themselves, their kin, the Atlantic, cast long reflections, unanticipated shadows. But what the river's mirror shows is none of this. The tide pushes upstream, flotsam, marblings of foam. Bridges – Skerton, Greyhound, Millennium, Carlisle – throw braided shadows and reflections. But peer from parapet or balustrade and all you see is your own small figure in the sky. Mike Barlow |