The stream of Sunday people
used to separate down High Street,
led by family threads, some to
Bethesda others to St. Pauls.

Some time later they joined a stream again,
swirling, rippling with the gossip of the day.
Their duty done singing hymns, dropping pennies,
offering prayers and sitting through sermons. Amen.

Prominent St. Pauls praised by Pevsner
as Runcorn's most distinctive building,
but Bethesda, older, iron railed,
both cures for souls till their people left.

Now St. Pauls cures patients' bodies,
while Bethesda harbours buses.
Weekday people steam and gossip,
potions purchased, journeys joined.

There is a drawing on my wall,
a pen and ink impression
of the old Transporter Bridge,
a Mecccano masterpiece.

It's my tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie,
pulling me back through time.

The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin,
we listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.

I've come to see Saint Christopher,
a cult local celebrity -
commanding, remote, bearing
the burden of pious prayers,
a chip from Cheshire's sandstone lip -
to hitch a lift on his shoulders
into Norton priory's past.

Gingerly touching sandstone walls,
connecting with their history,
rough grains adhere to my hand.
I somehow feel part of it now,
watching mediaeval hoodies
as they celebrate the spilling
of some ancient sacred blood.

We're boating on Brindley's cut
cruising to the cotton city
Manchester where it all goes on
the engine of our empire.

Eight hours of ease from Top Locks,
meals provided, plenty to see
here on the cutting edge
of British engineering.

A night out on the tiles
then back again to dear old Runcorn,
something to tell our kids,
the start of a transport revolution.

They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.

'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'

Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.

The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.

Cocooned under a web of road
rail and footpath at Top Locks
five narrow boats await their fate
stuck in a canal trade ice age.

Calling for new boat people
to change course from speed and stress
they're refitted cleaned and preened
for slow lane contemplation.

Slowly ne vessels pump life blood
branching out across old veins
filling the ships with goods again.

They swarm around their polyglot guide
trying to catch her savoured words
to match her stories with their myths
and the histories of Old England.

Here painted living statues pose
frozen til some money's paid
like mercenary seaside slot machines.

No place for the camera shy
no space for passers-by
no peace for older eyes
who seek their place in winter's light.