A Church, a Street, a Celtic Cross,
A Palace on the Hill;
Old stone walls with lichen moss,
Fertile lands to till.
Long gone the carriages of the past,
To their journeys end;
Their wheels ethereal ruts have cast,
Where gates and history blend.
Stark stumps sprout on ancient trees
O’er graves of residents gone;
Where crows cruise with elegant ease,
At twilight and the dawn.
Lord Arthur Hill, now in your place;
Could you have foreseen?
The schisms at your seat of grace,
As advocates strut and preen.
The opulence of your Hallowed Hall,
Place of inspired conniving;
Solemn portraits adorning every wall;
Faces from the past surviving.
Each hour, the belfry bells doth toll,
As they’ve done since days of yore;
A reminder to each living soul,
Of those who are no more.
Monty Alexander 12.12.03