Whitby church is falling down,
buried bones are raining free
on the kipper-smoking town
by the heavy rolling sea.
Will they find a damaged rib,
wooden stake through darkest heart?
Surely vampires are a fib –
nonsense tales right from the start.
If you wander on the beach
when day trippers have all gone
normal rules slip out of reach,
like the sun that almost shone.
Beware the slavering dog
leaping on to harbour wall,
hard to be sure in sea fog
now smothering almost all.
We can’t stop the cliff sliding;
gales through the Abbey remains.
Is it death we hear riding,
or whistle of toy steam trains?
A row of houses was lost
- too much water underground;
and often the storms release
a sudden, unearthly sound.
Strange folk on the steps to Whitby Abbey and church
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