No pilot on these boats; no
Captain; no staff; everyone aboard
Is from somewhere else.
The shopkeeper is from Shropshire
The cockney cook has a West Ham tattoo
Under his shirt
And St Jack crosses on his cufflinks
The mechanics speak to each other in Polish
I once spoke Polish with Frédéric Chopin's great grand nephew in Narita airport
We were drinking jasmine tea thence
The cleaning ladies are from Antwerp
They smile at me as if
I was family
The young man who works the till, at the self service restaurant
Has a golden brace with his name on it
Robert
He tells me he lives in Dover.
From his bedroom window
He watches the boats cross the dark stones of the port jetties
He was born in a nearby hospital, eighteen years ago.
He has never travelled further than Calais
He has never been to Calais
From the deck, four times a day, he sees its yellow sanded beach
Then he turns around and goes home.
He is the closest the boat has to an owner.
The boat slips, on its invisible thread, across the channel
The owner hands me the bill
Five pounds eighty and a free coffee.
