grey stone is relaced by red:
bricks from the Second World War
belonging to Bootle, Liverpool.
Each brick tells its own story:
dramas and triumphs from homes now long gone
yet the rhythm of the sea carries on,
risiing tide like a giant gate closing
cleansing tiles and basins from houses
that once stood in the mighty city nearby
before the bombs of the Luftwaffe fell.
I sense the ghosts of the terrified
and by the edge of the sand golfers play
but the tide can't wash history away.