Hi Arthur,
Very vivid and evocative and very enjoyable read IMO. I've only been to
Whitby the once but this took me right back.
Only a couple of nits - shouldn't it be "age counsels my heart"?
And "The ruins dark and gloomy" sounded a bit ordinary, but perhaps that's a
measure of how fresh you've made the rest of it sound.
I liked "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" a lot,
though. "Swuthers" wasn't a word I'd come across before, but it sounds just
right.
Regards,
Matt


-----Original Message-----
From: Arthur Seeley [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
Sent: 12 April 2004 19:04
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: New sub: 199 steps up to Whitby Abbey


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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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