The Death of Yarmouth

By Moonbrand

Mon, 26 Jun 2017
  • 603 reads
2 comments
 
She rose a thousand year afore
A spit of sand, no more
The fishers came to dry their nets
On Yarmouth’s virgin shore
 
Then settlers staked a claim on her
A church, a town, a port
And soon she claimed the eastern coast
The Great, no afterthought
 
For centuries then, Old Yarmouth swelled
The Rows within the walls
The Roads were graced by naval might
The streets by Kings and Fools
 
The fishing fleets were Yarmouth’s blood
On Herring she grew rich
The fisher girls with knives and spite
Could gut you with a twitch
 
But the silver darlings tarnished
A long, long time ago
The oil-wells stopped pumping
Or found a different place to flow
 
The tourists found Majorca
And blue skies guaranteed
And the gold on Yarmouth’s pavements
Was soon replaced with weed
 
And now she stands more shabby
The not so Golden Mile
Where the landaus trot less often
And stand empty half the while
 
The jetty once marked proudly
Where Nelson stepped ashore
And now it’s ripped asunder
On duty nevermore
 
Yet still I yearn for Yarmouth
The market, front and quay
Where ever I may wander
She’s where my heart will be
 
Steve Smith © 2015
Certificate U
Poem
Recent Poetry
Unclassified

Comments

Submitted by skinner_jennifer on

Although I've never been to Yarmouth, it sounded like you got all the fine details of this place, down really well in this poem. 

Very much enjoyed reading.

Jenny.

 

 

Submitted by Parson Thru on

Old seaside towns really get the creative juices flowing. I'm very familiar with one on the other side of the country. This poem has the air of a song about it. I can hear the accordian, guitar and fiddle. I like the idea of gold being replaced with weed. Great stuff.

Parson Thru