Mural

Once almost a little village Within the city’s bounds, Huddled around the fish dock With its own smells and sounds, Streets of rows of terraces All well kept and neat, Pride shining through Every worker Street. Deckies, Filleters, Bobbers All closely living there, The Skippers and Mates Breathing more refined air. Overalled fish house workers Mingle with and meet Segged clogged bobbers In the early morning street. Then they pulled down terraces Replaced with industrial estates Rehoused to the city’s fringes Splitting up families and mates. And the fishing industry died Trawlers tied up in the dock And old Hessle Road trembled Nearly died from the shock. No more deckies, filleters, bobbers All the fish houses long gone As this once vibrant area Learned to adapt and move on. The once thronged Hessle Road Seems near deserted these days As the population slowly adapts To the area’s very different ways. Rayners, the fisherman’s pub, Struggling to survive, Has mementos of the fleet To help keep its memory alive. In an ironical gesture, Sadly surveying it all, There’s a mural of a trawlerman Painted on a gable end wall.