Whitby

Whitby

Like a woman to a faithless man

Whitby clings by the side of a freezing sea

To the crumbling land.

The screaming seagulls might waken the dead

Who rest on the hillside facing the sea -

Waiting – waiting for the promised resurrection.

When I return in the winter I wait –

I wait for my memories to remind me

Of the first time over fifty years ago

When my blood slowed its pace

As if to match the sedate flow of folk

Ambling along its ancient streets.

But the harbour is not what it was when

I first walked by its busy boats cluttered

With gear and nets and men.

It dozes now lost in thought perhaps

On its raw-boned working past.

And the Abbey, like the undead,

Still stands and peers through

Sightless eyes on boats and men.

And in spite of aching age I still can see

The quiet and peaceful dream of England.