Sweet surrender on the quayside.
You remember we used to run and hide.
In the shadow of the cargoes I take you one time.
And we're counting all the numbers down to the waterline.
Near misses on the dogleap stairways.
French kisses in the darkened doorways.
A foghorn blowing out wild and cold.
A policeman shines a light upon my shoulder.
Up comes a coaster fast and silent in the night.
Over my shoulder all you can see are the pilot lights.
No money in our jackets and our jeans are torn.
Your hands are cold but your lips are warm.
She can see him on the jetty where they used to go.
She can feel him in the places where the sailors go.
When she's walking by the river and the railway line.
She can still hear him whisper:
"Let's go down to the waterline".