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Poetry Magnum Opus

Hastings castle


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Castle's beauty recedes into craggy elegance,

lost entrances lead to rooms in historians minds.
Parts of the castle have fallen into the sea, tides
are like tongues echoing the last words and reflections
of those lost in battle.
The water is like a photographers shroud, the castle
a camera, rain drops the disparate pieces of a photograph,
whose version of history is correct?. Rain goes much deeper
into stone than the wind, impulse for war overrides conscience.
Workers in the Bayeux tapestry digging a moat start to excavate for words
touching a picture in a closed book, clouds are like ghosts from
old battles lacking the power of speech as they pass over this
fortress with dementia and lost windows.
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