Goathland

I put paid to days in Robin Hood’s Bay
Drinking real ale in the shadows of greats
There songs as substantial as newly bloomed clouds
Ghosting over the harbor mouth
I knew their tunes right through to my bones
But wasted my days in watering holes

The route back to Goathland was littered with flowers
Who sang of themselves through trumpeted crowns
I held their songs in the back of my mind
Then offered them up to the North Yorkshire night

When time held me green in infancy’s bliss
I roared like the sea with chains at my wrists
Roaming ’round Goathland and Robin Hood’s Bay
Eavesdropping secrets of waves that won’t break

The letters of lovers all plaintively state
Their inner most hopes when hearts first awake
So I am compelled to detail the voices
In whose tender presence my heart first rejoiced
Their songs sublime as Peak District walks
Or Hopelessly vast as the North Yorkshire Moors

I’m aware very well of the salt complaints of boys who don’t look past their nose
But I left that extra-canonical mess a long long time ago

When time held me green…