Scarborough, twice in two weeks.
The first, a late, dark dash to Wilko,
Google maps confusing my hasty brain,
not locating the store in the mini arcade.
I fetched my ironing board at 27 minutes past 5;
they joked at the till how close I was
to going home with nowt.

And now I’m back
and found the Crescent’s elegance,
not forsaken or lost,
still there in timeless symmetry,
ending in a gallery of captured jewels,
a time of lobster pots and alleyways
and long skirts swishing.

I enter the poetry reading
just a little late,
timed subconsciously
to avoid the chat,
as I come alone
to find my way
with these people, perhaps.