199 steps up to Whitby Abbey
The wind through the close streets of small pan-tiled cottages is cold and
full of sharp rain. It is Easter and spring stretches through the daffodils
but the moods of winter still linger, chilling the air.
The steps rear and rise up the face of the west cliff. Age councils my heart
as I contemplate the passage. Little by little, that'll do it, I promise
myself.
Our party of three splits into individual worlds of silent effort.
I will not count them. Only step and rest, step and rest.
Slow leakage of strength into the gradient and wind.
Let others count. Scrawled on one step in stone on stone," 100". Ah! Over
halfway.
Gulls cup the wind under them
waves pearl over the harbour walls
Whitby embraces the sea.
Step and rest, step and rest, the climb unfurls. My heart thuds patiently
and breath is cold and hard. I am awaited by smiles and the buffet of wind.
The lash of rain is sharp as hail on my face.
The ruins dark and gloomy in the grey of the day.
Clouds draw veils of rain over the sea.
A sudden squall. Others cower under walls, avoid the thrust interrogations
of the wind. Glowing in my triumph, years beaten, I stand broad to the wind
and feel the passing pluck of it, the brotherly hug and bustle as it
swuthers across the quivering grass.
In the churchyard thrift trembles,
litter swirls. A gull jubilates
in shrill mockery of the day
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