Yorkshire grit as autumn diamonds.

 
An Edwardian town Scarborough,
of the fishing game
and old German bombs,
boys that never came back.
 
A fine artist,
old ships by the score,
everything in sunlight,
so much more.
 
Ladies on the other table,
in the sunny cafe,
worth a picture,
talking of trains and football and Ipads.
 
In the next war,
you can ring your mother,
from the front line,
I'm just going for a walk,
I may be some time,
I leave my things to my wife.
 
Talking to a man whose father new Guy Gibson,
racing American cars across the runway,
after the war was over.
 
A loved husband,
pushing his wife in a wheelchair,
an opportunist young seagull,
learning from its parents,
about free chips,
that always taste better by the sea.
 
In the Lord Nelson,
a warm cold pint,
Lisa going on about the fags,
old lags and fair barkers,
lottsa love,
the time of parkas.
 
The gold cup tipped up,
pouring the king's shilling,
a young boy castle sand tilling,
Carpe Deim
and all the world's an ice cream.
 
~