12; weeks ago today my brother died.
I can’t believe he’s gone it is a lie
12; weeks ago today my brother died.
I can’t believe he’s gone it is a lie
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
See the Abbey ruins on the cliff
I can’t climb those steep steps any more
The whip of salty sea, the shells, the lore
The old town with its alleys and its fish
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
We heard the seagulls shrieking, Jesus rose
We were in a cottage but in fact
I won’t climb those abbey steps no more
In my mind I find an unmarked door
A dream comes by, who whipped my tender flesh?
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
Fish don’t die like sheep in abbatoirs
But yet it must gruesome so to thrash
I can’t climb those steep steps any more
I don’t like eating fish,I hate their whiff
It makes me conscious of my father’s death
I’d like to visit Whitby and its shores
Who can’t climb those Abbey…
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May be the swelling graves of monks, derided, gone.
The vertical calls out in one high wall
A fiery blackbird makes the final call.
The plainchant praising G-d has charged the air
For us who don’t entomb our inner ear
The sacred music floats away like leaves
Bewitched and married by an autumn breeze
We stood in silence, viscerally stunned
The river was as clear as love’s demands
And still, in my mind’s eye, I see that stream
I am held by the imagined Abbey’ in shared dreams
An elegiac moment caught in words
Entranced by symbols like the darting birds