On Beornmund’s Isle
‘Bermondsey’ – from the Saxon name, Beornmund and the Old English word for island, ‘Ey’ – meaning: ‘Beornmund’s Island’.
Out of the Blue, that ancient roost, we roll.
Out of the Blue, that Lion’s den, that Pilgrim’s rest of old.
Where through the years, the market traders bold
have clothing, trinkets, leather and eels sold.
Through Rock Grove Way, up to Old Thames, we fly.
Between the white-crossed ziggurats, where gardens fill the sky.
Spat out by drip-soaked arches, where the whistling Thameslink’s cry
rumbles through the tunnels – and the vans roar their reply.
Past where Peak Freen’s biscuit base is stripped and packed away.
Past where bowed cranes now raise brand-new towers on its grave.
Beyond the micro-breweries, whose smiling punters say
that beers are in – and biscuits left behind with yesterday.
Onwards to St. James’ – weathered sentinel in stone.
So wearied you’d not think it built, but from the marshland, grown.
Inside, a congregation makes its hall their Sunday home.
Above, a dragon balances upon a golden throne.
North to old Jamaica, where the streets no longer tell
of vanished wharves and warehouses, and all they used to sell.
Of how they faced the German bombs and from that whorling hell
town planners raised wide avenues of Soviet hotels.
Up to the waterfront we come, the river’s curving path,
where London sprouts in reeds beside brown water, chugging past.
Where music, dogs and kids play, and (if you know where to ask) –
Justice is served, the same as old, inside a glass.
Down to the beach we potter, where the tides smooth bricks to spheres.
Down to the beach, where the river’s steady lapping fills our ears.
Where, through the bobbing barges, buoys and boats, a thousand years
of human ingenuity, in London’s towers, appears.
Now wend along the waterfront and perch atop a wall,
on Jacob’s Island, buried slum, where Bill Sikes met his fall.
Face back towards this district’s heart, and dwell on each and all
of those, from now to Beornmund’s day, who’ve held this isle tall.