Ferries across Hillsborough
were rivers of driftwood hoardings,
severed wavelets of siren blue
surfaced on drowned chests.
The doorways of leppings lane
housed dilated occupants
a theft of borrowed belongings
like fronds in flaccid liver birds.
Assess the foundations
a girl carried once in her Ma
carried twice to rest on her Da,
crumbling on raised earth.
There’s a pea that crushed the whistle’s throat,
a silence freed from working class memorials
they dug for decades with shards of an hourglass
unearthing the vital minutes.
This poem, about the football fans killed at Hillsborough, was published in Antony’s collection with Hesterglock Press Margaret Thatcher’s Museum. It’s a book which should be on all bookshelves.
You can get it from: