The walls of stone with mortared vein,
Bastions of a bygone age;
Such builders we’ll n’er see again.
Who tore the rock from quarry face,
Swathed in sweat and dust;
For each edifice in its chosen place.
Gone are they but stones still stand,
Staid reminders to the eye;
Land embossed by the mason’s hand.
Follies shaped or defensive screen,
Within hollow or upon the hill;
Where habitats of wealth have been.
Gaze now at the corner’s corbelled bow,
Within the towering ramparts high;
From shade and shadow cast below.
Each sculpted stone a dream encased,
Of the Lord and labourer lowly;
From the task that they embraced.
Wonderment before one looks away,
To grapple time as it unfolds;
Long past the toils of distant day.
In the lasting language of the stone,
Read of those all gone before;
As nests speak of the weavers flown.
Monty Alexander 17.8.03