A Lost Village

In those days we would clock out earlyOn a Friday afternoon and head for theStation with its steaming, belching engines.They always seemed impatient to be off,Hissing at the men and women waiting.You almost expected them to speakAnd tell you that scruffy northern ladsWere more than lucky to be travellingIn a carriage pulled by such a steed.But they had to be coaxed into lifeBy railway men feeding their fiery belliesWith coal mined by an army of minersWho once toiled in the danger-filled dark.But this was before Dr. Beeching had his way -We could haul our rucksacks onto a trainWhich chugged and chuntered to Whitby,No need to stop and change at Leeds.And I like to think that the freedom ofThe weekend really began when thatWhistle blew and the sound drifted on the wind -And then, the cry of the seagulls and theSmell of the sea and the fish in a harbourBusy and bustling with raw-boned life.Fishing boats cluttered with nets and gearAnd the shouts of the men and womenWorking still, like so many before them,With life hauled from a freezing North Sea.And walking past the swing bridge which ledTo the steps worn by feet and time to theAbbey – a lost hope carved in stone:An earthly vision of eternity.

But nothing but time stays the same:Crowds of people gobbling fish and chips,Hot dogs and ice cream now flow pastPleasure boats moored in the harbour.Hard now to stroll and savour the senseOf a village at ease with itself.Choked with cars and the glare and glitterOf the trash that money will buy haveTransformed the port and the villageWhich once, for me, was a dream of England.