Nobbut a beck to begin with.

 

The Esk escorted by daffodils

beside both banks, and a train

that escaped Beeching’s

scattergun. Skirts

the moorland’s northern edge,

past lambs and fields

festooned with pheasants.

 

Scurries over boulders,

relaxes and widens

as we approach the sea,

is celebrated by a magnificent,

redundant viaduct,

a memorial to the line

from Scarborough.

 

Glorious day, riches.

Four carriages.

A train threatened with erasure

for decades Is packed

with day trippers.

Fish and chips,

and boats, and Whitby jet.

 

We take a boat beyond

the harbour, within sight

of Sandsend.

The sea breeze

beats at our faces.

Returning from our jaunt

you snooze,

 

           I write this poem.