Cally Temple

Solid grey buttressed against the beeches

blued stone steps and a frail metal banister

it floats on a raft of gravel amidst

the appropriate narcissi;

a pit spiralling down to watery stillness

crimson cups on dead wood

the tapering cones of moss

weak, insipid sunlight

among new green shoots.

Shadow of a deer ripples between

the sunlit birch and cracked,

splintered conifers.

A raven croaks catarrhally

and the seesaw song of great

tits skitter under a greying sky

Blocked windows, unseeing doors

on three sides, one face open

to the lost passers-by. No-one

left to impress, it turns a blind eye

to the traffic passing on the bypass


John Priestley

 

The Temple: Diary


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