Rob Galpin

Defoe followed it, north to Gateshead,
saying, “the empty-handed traveller
will sing in the presence of the robber,”
and, unharmed and penniless,
set up his home on Hellgate,
the medieval slum since lost to fire.

He found the Tyneside air
“pretty cold and piercing”—
and sat down to write Robinson Crusoe.
And as Crusoe found God
amongst the cannibals, so Keiller's
Robinson—lost in space, in England's ruins—
found sanctuary of sorts under
Newcastle's bridges.

I too loved the sureness of the crossing spans,
and spent years inside myself,
suspended—shuttling back and forth
alone, from skinner burn to rabbitbanks,
quayside to the burnt-out staithes.

I followed nothing.
I didn't find God, write novels,
or hermit myself in philosophical knots.
I only remained penniless
and safe, and as much at home
as the calling kittiwakes from the
Tyne Bridge towers—who paint
the streets all summer,
then suddenly leave—for the north,
and the sea.