for Anne Brontë
Blown-headed scone at the cliffs, Scarborough yawns.
Its sugary cough full of the sea-air, full of the lungs
that cannot pull the wishbone
from the scamming waves prescribed.
Our lungs drag on the town’s toffeed send-off –
bonbons, juleps, the junk-food of palsy.
Smiles come when they coax our recovery
with pellets and good views to instruct a righting,
asthenic instincts sluiced clean as athletes.
No, our capacity leads us to this hoarse right
to rug-wrapped Augusts on a chaste beach.
Image by: Adam Wyles