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

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The children howl, the house is hell
you close your eyes to cast that spell

Rising high above the endless squabbles 
to meet me down upon those sodden cobbles

The rain and fog are gently taunting
your white shirt billows, opaque and haunting

On Henrietta Street…

Two hundred stairs, do I descend
with full-beam smile to my treasured friend

These precious moments, we get to steal
...

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