By the sight of thee thy crumbling stones
thy pale, bleached devotion
mid books of learning
thy faith-filled gall
not surrendered yet
despite all this castigation
of Caedmon’s poem

We gather, rent of our disposition to deify
where easterly winds fly
the shells of our invaders
upon the promontory
austere, clandestine
removed, asinine, bleak
prone to solipsism

Wrestle the nightmares of thy youth
write pain of thine infirmity
writhe the vampire
imbibe his hidden grail
not feared of gargoyle
nor despot, dane, nor abbes
nor vexed of declining shoreline

Opening to thy windswept earth vernal
womb to thy mother’s bruising
bones of the stigmata
layered neath thy holiness
thy ageing strata
loosing their remains
given of thy raging sea

Long the night winds batter constant
the lashing rain’s fervency
provoking dissemination
determined in its decay
where trees denied
cannot grow nor minster
as communities of grace

The war torn manner of thy heritage
fits not the life of the chaste
hermits, christ’s brides, hide
thine lives in honest living
honour offers within
thy soulful giving
obedience paid with shilling

By the hill at Whitby I fly a flag of peace
where lies souls deceased
amid thy ruined past
thine harbour shelter
oft thy rampant sea
thy foe, thy ravaged history
thine earnest prayers I see

                          ©edenbraytoday07.04.2022