The poem and picture, Dedicated to my friend,
On this fine day, Birthday wishes I send.
With camera in hand, We see the sights,
The old ruin there, And London at night.
You are so polite, And friendly you see,
Why we want you, Happy as can be.
Mother to us all, In the best way,
Wont let any obstacle, Get in your way
Hazel it's your day, Of you we're proud,
Eat loads of cake, This day your allowed.
A heart of gold, Is what they say,
Pleasure to know you, On this your birthday
A high Vantage-point, high up on the Hill,
Standing Majestic, but broken and still.
The ruins of a past, so dark and foreboding,
Whilst all along, the cliffs are eroding.
Whitby Abbey stands, now damaged and decayed,
The destruction of which, I am sadly dismayed.
Standing proud from sea, and from land,
One hundred and ninety-nine steps, down to the sand.
Over eight hundred years, has now lapsed,
Whilst winds have caused, partial collapse.
Bombers caused damage in nineteen fourteen,
Get those gothic remains, A marvel to be seen.
Given its shape, to tales of blood and gore,
In times of great weather, ominous for sure.
This great mass of stone, an abbey so great,
Torn down and plundered, was it's sad fate.