We’re All Passers By

Carole Pluckrose

And the river has its own song, doesn't it?

Here where we gather, let me take you back,

Back to the 1860s

Six sail makers,

Five mast, pump and block makers,

Five shipwrights and boat builders

Four rope and line makers….

Four marine store dealers,

Four slop-sellers.

Two ships chandlers,

Makers of ship’s biscuits, sea boots, kegs, casks and nets.;[[]

And still the river, always the river.

And the Short Blue Fleet set out to the North Sea

With its orphan fisherboys

Many not to return.

And still the river, always the river.

And the Irish weavers and spinners who came,

reddening their fingers at the Jute works

right here on Fisher Street,

With their plaid shawls and braided hair

And the army of women sewing sacks at home.

And still the river, always the river.

150 years breathed in a beat

The smacks gone, the Creek quietened

Factories rise and fall

Detritus, explosion and stink

And still the river, always the river

And one way or other the boats and the houses,

The artist dwellers on the waters.

And dear Johnny, the guitar singing boat whisperer.

The anchor.

A grin as broad as the creek itself,

At one with the elements.

Gone.

And still the river, always the river.

A new century fresh with hope.

Olympic promises

Rooff

And then to the Boathouse

All to play for in the changing days

And play we did   and hard.

The crew steers, more or less,

Forecast watching.

The storms have their own rhythm.

Passengers hop on and off

On their way to wherever they dream of.

Water and flow,

The boat is a home,

The house is a shelter,

Then and now converge in one space

Ghosts sing of the past

Children sing of the future.

Water sustains us.

And still the river, always the river.

Present laughter springs again in the walls,

And the empty spaces belong to whichever passerby

Chooses to imagine, add their voice, their melody,

Their mark for a moment

Or a lifetime.

And so it is with the river of life

And the stories we tell and the stories our children’s children will tell.

And the rites we share and will continue to share

Here in this magical space.

And still the river, always the river.

A poem written on the occasion of the Boathouse 10th Anniversary 2024