They call this place the Last of Hope,
The quayside packed with wailing folk,
Where Stoics stand and watch the boats,
And some will fight whilst others choke.
Behind the docks, the red brick spreads
And fills with cotton, coal and lead.
The brick turns black on chimney stacks,
Turns black on houses, back to back.
It wrenched its future from the fields,
From cottage mills and common lands,
And now it faces out to sea:
Enslaved, dependent, hanging on.
From lands which spill their ocean blood,
Come those who walk the one way street.