Whitby

I came, Demeter like,
silent amid the mizzle
save for the seas salty breath
in the dead rigging.

An alabastrine jig and reel
trails suspended on spectral strings
to the gentle pitch and roll
of my progress

towards the enduring
granite blocked cove where
I slide under the stoical
gaze of twin Cyclops sentinels.

No mournful bell at sea
accompanies me. I live,
but wraithlike pass over
the thronging cobblestones

to leap some two hundred
steps of dripping flag
to good St Mary’s
broken toothed orchard of stone

till at last with aspect overseeing
the wild Ness and Burg,
in the shadow of Dane sacked abbey,
I sit where Stoker sat.