Black and grey anticipation.

Greets the trains, at Whitby Station.

Come observe our chaotic thrall.

A carrion call.The Whitby Crawl.

Turn on your flash, for camera tale.

It makes our skin so very pale.

You may approach and seek connection.

Upon inspection, there’s no reflection.

See the Abbey on the hill.

We come to shock, we come to thrill.

Beside the graves a morbid ball.

The eerie call, The Whitby Crawl.

Keep glad thoughts, and happy news.

Summer palettes and Autumn hues.

To promenade at Pannetts Park.

We prefer it black and humour dark.

Wind blows our cloaks, One and Ninety Nine.

Retracing steps when you were mine.

In Arguments Yard, a Gothic brawl.

Embrace it all, the Whitby Crawl.

In trance like queues, forward they move.

In leather boots and thick heeled shoes.

Sharp teeth sink in, to fresh caught prey.

Behold the Magpie, “Catch of the day”.

Judge my shadow, observe me well.

Lets engage outside, the Elsinore Hotel.

This Summers rose, now Autumns fall.

Kiss me quick on the Whitby Crawl.

Begrudge the sun, embrace the moon.

Fear not the Steak at the Withered Spoon.

Or garlic cloves at Cosa Nostra.

See the walking dead at the Whitby Costa.

Like bats we flee from B&B caves.

In taxis, cars, and bus like trains.

Close the lids await the call

Of Supernatural Whitby Crawl