Whitby Abbey (by Nuno Lopes via Creative Commons)

Whitby

And coming down from high moors
I caught a whiff of Whitby,
Through bitching rain, a coastal squall,
Came a smalltown smell so subtle almost dreamt,
For hours the world was wind and heather, weather, weather,
Beneath me slurping feet, an earthy maw belching sheep

Stinging eyes, defeated hair, useless coats,
Moist skin, sodden boots and ughh,
Squelch, rain and rain and suddenly:
WHITBY
That arrogant man in the rain, the Abbey,
Hilda’s ghost a speck in the eyes of emptied windows,

Evening and I slipped past St. Mary’s
Heading for the harbour and the pier,
Where I stood entranced by the ocean,
Slapping waves in a tumble-drying mind

Dracula, grouse, fish and lovers
All present here in someone’s head,
In mine the lying sea, unending, beckons,
Waves, urges a plunge, a bloated return,
To mother in a long-known tale

The moment is betrayed by a struggling smile,
As drifting voices heave me back,
Back where drinkers come and go in waves,
Toward uncounted steps and cobbled ghosts,
Held coiling in ropes, opposing curled embedded snakes,
Witness to this peering block of callow youth
Torn from the sea with the worn out ends of a song.

Bicycles and Balloons

Dull horizons over winter trees
Stand silent in rain which doesn’t fall,
Cropped grass in a yellow-brown number,
Is unimpressed by a child on a bicycle,
Racing down its back, laughing at lazy gulls,
Suddenly loosing their wings

A large crow in a gnarled tree
Is unconcerned with drifting balloons,
Welcomed by shrieking girls in rooms,
Whose wide eyes watch them fade:
A kestrel who shouldn’t be here, buzzes earth,
And the sky remains contentedly grey.