Little Vennel

Short lane, leading
Shorewards to the sea,
The grinding breakers of the Firth,
The world the town touches,
Source of timbered incoming heaving to.

Little Vennel, the road a rib in the connecting skeleton,
Spanning down from Church Street and its old ways.
People are the flesh on this skeleton,
Bustling about on its rigid framework.

These are the runways of life,
Sometimes the slipways to an early grave.
Hoar-black in winter, cobbles are obstinate
Keepers of a strange unruly past.

Leading away from the life of the streets
From the hub of the Mercat Cross
Deeper into the foaming mysteries.
Until the remains of the town’s sons
Stretch in the deep in final mimicry of the whited lanes.