York is in spate
and my eyes are watering
with the frustrated steam
rising from the Railway Museum;
the empty passion of the Minster.
As glistening ducks swim The Avenue,
wet typists bob through Saviourgate,
their fingers damp with history,
tingling with the touch of word-flow.
So cry me this river,
torrents of ale drown my throat.
Sup me a city,
soak me in song.
Let their warm blouses cling
to their gorgeous skin,
nipples erect with drops of rain.
We are flooded.
It gets everywhere
this stream of consciousness,
this welter of water,
pouring into archives,
gnawing at timber
and bones.
We have no control.
We cannot stem the tide of hours.
Our boat floats along stream,
urged on by the waves
of boys in a rush,
and dogs swimming like fish.
York is in spate
and I’m lost in its Shambles;
weary arms flapping,
up to the pits in it.
This Yorkshire Life,
and things I do not really understand:
the planes in the sea,
the girls,
and the ships
in the sky.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
