Post by johan on Jun 3, 2010 10:25:17 GMT -5
A Walk as the Crow Flies
Before me stretched this laborious path
well rutted long past horse and cart
dry empty gorse grown grass
this path a parting of strong coarse hair
combed by the season's winds, no human sound
just the songs of birds awakening
singing through the sharp and bracken hedge
flying on the wing urging chicks to fledge
I listen in the wind, past and present
the sound of age old gypsy caravans
children skipping, laughing, playing chase
fading in the never ending distance
I reach the peak of this rolling hill
before me lays the open countryside, clean
smell of damp earth and pollen, I breath my fill
then amble on towards the distant spire
the sound of age old gypsy caravans
children skipping, laughing, playing chase
fading in the never ending distance
I reach the peak of this rolling hill
before me lays the open countryside, clean
smell of damp earth and pollen, I breath my fill
then amble on towards the distant spire
A cobbled road, the ancient church of Christ
surrounded by a stone hewn rugged wall
the gate an iron bell shaped edifice
with a cut glass welcome light
along a twisting cracked stone path, each side
old gravestones leaning, faded epitaphs
toward an oaken brass bound door
the glorious entrance, carved angels below a cross
Bright quarried shaped briquettes on a diamond floor
edges with growths of bright green moss
rows of polished pews
rest below a high stone vicar's pulpit
above the vestry a kaleidoscope of colours
a sacred window, inlaid sculptures
disciples, the Virgin Mary and many others
against the limestone walls, old stone tombs
edges with growths of bright green moss
rows of polished pews
rest below a high stone vicar's pulpit
above the vestry a kaleidoscope of colours
a sacred window, inlaid sculptures
disciples, the Virgin Mary and many others
against the limestone walls, old stone tombs
Knights, arms crossed with epitaphs
overhead fierce carved gargoyles in the gloom
across the ancient graveyard against the vestry wall
a lion's snarling head spouting water from its mouth
with chain and brass bound drinking cup
through a creaking, rusting church back door
down a cobbled twisting lane, rows of terraced cottages
owned by the church, lived in by the poor.[/b][/i]
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