The sea at Whitby throws up cold sea salt
Determined to make blinding us its tool
We self blame but is attack our fault
When deep North waters try a fresh assault?
The sea at Whitby throws up its own salt
The bones of Captain Cook writhe in his vault
As children wind in masks down to their school
The dark deep sea at Whitby tastes of salt
Preserves drowned sailors, making of them ghouls
The deep green sea
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