However it is we return to the water's edge where the ferry grieves down by the Pier Head, we do what we always did and get on board. The city drifts out of reach. A huge silvery bird, a kiss on the lip of the wind, follows our ship. This is where we weere young, the place no map or heritage guide can reveal. Only an X on a wave marks the spot, the flowers of litter, a grave for our ruined loves, unborn children, ghosts. We look back at the skyline wondering what we lost in the hidden streets, in the rented rooms, no more than punters now in a tourist boom. Above our heads the gulls cry yeah yeah yeah. Frets of the light on the river. Tearful air.