A joy-decked thing, a bairn’s anticipation;
Hungry imagination, high elation.
An’ when wor bairn had filled hoe piggy bank
Till shakin’ it wad ne mair men it clank,
All doon world lane she’d chattor ‘n’ she’d boast
Cum Setorda Aa’d trek for t’ the Coast.
Lang as Aa live Aa’ll not forget the day
Wor Polly Anna went t’ Whitley Bay.
T’ ye yon place is jist a tourist toon;
T’hor a magic city on the moon!
Ye mebbies try t’ fend against the Fates,
An’ fret ‘n’ grumble ower moontin’ rates,
An’ see scant beauty in the daily roond —
Half deid ‘n’ blind t’ ivvory sight ‘n’ soond
That howlds romance ‘n’ charm. Preoccupations
Beclood the grace of wide realities,
The hieroglyphic poems writ in the skies.