Eboracum

 

Eboracum.

The city asleep,

the place of the yew trees.

Quaint Medieval streets,

dripping in the blood

of history.

 

Ghoulish treats,

a maze of shops selling sweets

on which to feast.

Eboracum.

where once the wild beasts

roamed free.

 

Ghosts still walk the streets,

they amble through the shambles.

Along the ford haunted by the owl

To Ye Olde Starre Inne,

to let the revelry, begin.

But soon the devil walks through,

as he is want to do.

When the gin and rum flow

and the ghosts have paid their dues.

 

They pace the city walls,

built to stop wild boars

from entering.

The same walls that couldn't stop

the Vikings

raping and pillaging.

 

Gargoyles leer from over your shoulders

every cobblestone their eyes cover,

every shop front,

every local haunt.

Making you feel like

you are never alone.

Always eyes

that watch over and point.

 

Stained glass,

cathedral Tower looming over.

Bells mark the hour,

chimes 12 times.

The cobbled streets are ours

to look up and gaze at the stars.

As the phantoms replay their fates,

like records of their dying states.

 

Back in the hotel,

hope of restful sleep to come.

Eboracum, Jorvik to some,

seemingly untouched by time.

Wooden beams and crooked walls,

a restful place when silence falls.

As long as the ghosts stay down on the streets

and leave you in peace,

huddled up warmly between your sheets.

 

 

Thanks for reading.

Please check out my books at Amazon.

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.