They could be Gormley’s men, rusting
on Crosby beach for all the world
a memorial to the stragglers of Dunkirk,
or myth creatures scorched for ever; well,
Fate warned them they would be
if there was so much as a glance at Helios
during the rare collusion of Mars and Saturn.
But these are yours or mine, plunged
in river-rush and alert to evasive trout.
There’s no tide here: bushed at the end
of its climb upstream, it’s given way
to the old route of ice melt, field cataracts,
summer’s shallow roll of grit and silt.
As the fish lash to reach them, protesting,
they stand accused: wife-beaters and thieves
fled from hostility, deaf to good advice.
Note: Another Place is the name of sculptor
Antony Gormley’s installation at Crosby.