for Sean Hutton

   I.
It seems I have spoken harshly, if not unjustly,
Of Yorkshire, its folk and its Ridings.
Shall I take it all back? We stand on the sands at Bridlington.
Love makes lucid the alien air
Power and purity blow
In from the North Sea.
Of course, I could tell you
Those sands, towards low tidemark,
Are crowded with poisonous weaver-fish
Waiting to jab their envenomed spines
Into the feet of incautious paddlers. In much the same way
I have been stabbed by honest homely citizens
In the pubs in Leeds-morally, that is, and verbally.

   II.
Those monstrous Yorkshire towns-Sheffield,
With her necklace of razor-blades, Bradford,
...