Whitby Abbey (by Nuno Lopes via Creative Commons)

Arriving at Whitby

For hours the land belched sheep,
as we crossed boot-sucking maw until
abruptly the town gusted up our noses

Coming down from high ground,
we caught that whiff of Whitby through
a bitching rain – Nick and Dev and me

A sea town smell so subtle almost dreamt,
before the Abbey uncrouched in our faces,
Hild’s ghost a speck in eyes of empty windows

So delivered by rough uncounted steps,
via walls of curled embedded stony snakes,
we crossed an unseen border into a postcard

Where neither Captain Cook nor Dracula,
came out to smile toothily or wave hellos,
a bleached whalebone arch would have to do

Followed by great big greasy bags of chips,
an old man cursing on a little boat,
a scattering of Goths, pale pub-pilgrims

Bobbing in a crowded flaking bar
where drinkers came and went like tides,
including me, when I had to slip away

Heading for the harbour, past St Mary’s,
down toward a solid block of pier where
I stared but failed to fathom the North Sea.

Once Through A Window

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 colour of the day remains discontent grey.