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Poetry Magnum Opus

Since the war..


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It's been derelict for years:

since the war to be exact,

but no one's had the nerve to pull it down.

The paths-- important once,

are overgrown with scrub and briar

obscuring the memorials.

And grimy leaded lights

make pocked and gap-toothed faces,

evolved from catapults and stones

of youths-- and children young as six.


Though-- were you to force your way

past the rubble hampered door.

Perhaps you'd hear a distant strain,

Toccata and Fugue or the Wedding March,

depending on your mien. A children's choir,

or voices from the crowded pews

iterating hymns of praise.

Look up! At patchwork silver saints

martyred yet again, by shafts of light

and remnants of the coloured glass.

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Thanks Tink. I've tried to give it a certain 'face value' appeal whilst conjuring with deeper allusions. B.

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