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Run down any road –
run down or rising –
All lead to the dockside's
shocking wealth of beauty.
Citadel of a landed island,
Evolved in isolation,
The capital of herself.
She shows her best face to the sea:
Defying both sides. The marine air,
in which her Graces sing,
Like all things Scouse or scouser:
The homesweet warmth of a shorebound sailor,
The cold cut of a Celtic edge.
November 2007
