The Brunels’ dock, mud silted dock,
long since departed entry lock,
a floating harbour they had planned
not far from Aberavon sand,
by power station overlooked,
round which the Welsh Coast Path is hooked
near remnant jetty being used,
industrial store and nature fused:
above, the buzz-and-hum of cars
on motorway and main road jars
with placid flow of river’s pace,
that’s ever streamed before took place
the Brunel study and designs
of port to serve some shipping lines:
another line, sole railway track,
dead passes by, its business slack,
or so its gleam-less metals claim,
while cross the river, prows in shame,
lie boats in bed of muddy bank,
and stare at harbour, dull and dank
with weeds that greet the highest tide,
a view to both Brunels supplied
and seen by them when lived their hour
at Briton Ferry, marked by tower.
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