Brewery Gate

Sometimes in the dusk
the horses rattle in, even now,
with a cart of hops.
Sometimes a wagon of empties,
turns sharp under the iron arch
and pulls up by the brewing shed.

Then there’s the clatter of unloading
the chatter, a thump a yell,
the hollow roll of barrels
the drum of one on other
as they’re piled.

Sometimes in the darkness
the Thames wheel churns.
almost drowning out
the blacksmith’s hammer.

At night you sometimes hear
the engine house driving iron,
the loaded wagons heaving out.

Later, the braking lorries
bruise the pavement by the bend.

Mostly though, it’s just a silent shadow now.