Where Krampus Walks in Whitby

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

 

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

 

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

 

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

 

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

 

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

 

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

Done