Not silence at the cathedral,
and windows blooming like flowers,
but laughter beneath the yawning stonework.
Fingers twisted in the gown,
Dan in his best khaki. The whispered suggestion
of stealing the god-sized clock.

Not a poster of ornamental doorways,
or cobbles captured in watercolour.
But profanity at the door that always sticks,
words shelled by the half-moon overhang.
Broken ankles on a stilettoed Friday night.

Not barcoded tickets at the castle,
children and mannequins staring from recesses.
But warmth and spilt beer in the bar,
everything sweet and sticky.
Strangers pressing, always too close,
and mottled red legs beneath skirts.

Trees stretching down the river
as though yet to wake. The air over the bridges,
seagulls. A busker strumming Scarborough Fair
on the way to the shops. The Oxfam bookshop,
the market with cheap buckets and hair clips.
Cafés that want to stay hidden
with chipped sewing-machine tables.

Not the small, shiny pictures
from pamphlet, website. Presenting only
for the eye, but the raw teeth, feet
and hands of it. The movement of the river,
the swirl of the people,
screams on a Saturday night.