Si.

Si.

Posted on 06/10/2017


Photo taken on June  4, 2016



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Whitby

Whitby
Whitby

The lanes are cobble beneath your feet,
Make your way through the crowds on the street.

Up looms the start of Whitby’s Church stairs,
One hundred and ninety-nine, so be prepared.

After a few and you take your breath,
The wide stone parts, where the coffins did rest.

At last you reach St. Mary’s Church,
The graveyard where the pirates lurch.

The Caedmon cross, where poems began,
St. Hilda’s Abbey where the Fryers rang.

Across the estuary to the side on the West,
Where Captain Cook stands to attest.
Then down the Khyber pass and stroll,
Passed the lifeboat station old.

Among the shops to a sandy beach,
To eat fish and chips for a sumptuous feast.

Where the river Esk flows gently out to sea,
A place to relax effortlessly.

You’ll awake to the seagulls squawk,
And hear tall tales as the fishermen talk.

This timeless place when you can be
In the sixteenth or twenty-first century.



Claire EB-F

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