I
Upon Rawcliffe –
a new town,
its valley verdant; steam-trained.
In the steep hoofsteps of cows,
tread trav’llers.
The blank-verse chimes
time night.
Switch – dark. Hold – whisper.
II
The flies find lighted windows –
polished tow’r.
The scone cliffs crumble.
On cake ‘n coffee fuel,
we coast to Ravenscar…
Beware the bull!
The cow! The calf!
See the seals supine!
III
A greasy spoon –
red brick; green paint; raw screech
of th’babe hushushed.
A breadbeanketchup mush
on plate on tray.
Imminent…
“Another round!” She’ll cry.
Th’quiet prior t’storm.
IV
Ana Cross –
a bird of prey,
at hov’ring height, doth herald.
The ironworks, b’yond moorrise,
echo th’wind.
Moss-matted bridge – streamriverstone.
Impeer’yul Rome lost…
Purple heather.
Image credit – Ebor Images
william altoft 