The ravens perch
upon the headstones
in the graveyard where
lay buried the bones
of York's King Edwin
whom, in battle beheaded,
in Whitby Abbey's grounds
was then bedded.
Hilda of the Abbey
was his great-niece.
Now, like Dracula ?
the King was a peace.
BASKING IN THE BAST-LIKE SMILE
Bast, offspring of Isis,
Bast of the cat or lion-head.
Bast, director of the sun's rays
it once had been said.
Musicians come play, dancers come dance,
time for a Bast festivity.
I bask in the very sunny-smile
of a sure-catlike Siamese lady.
A fairy-knight upon a kelpie rode.
It swam as fast as the river flowed
through the valley 'tween highland hills.
And under an old haggy's spells
her minute minions took up their bows,
and fired, at the pair, poisoned arrows.
But swam the kelpie with such speed
the arrows missed the knight and his steed.
There is magic in thoughts just as fast,
and imaginations that sure do spell-cast.
Kate went to live in Newcastle
where had been filmed Get Carter.
I went to live in York City
where'd be filmed some of Harry Potter.
A sort of grim reality or fairy-story
our own dreams we had to pursue.
Cities are often made of both.
Oh katy, have you found that too ?