From my window
Towers spring between me and
the horizon;
One, an old hospital,
Two are churches.
In more distant times,
a third church,
An orange and white meat
market;
And a brown tower could also
be spied;
But,
whilst the third church lies
in the realm of the old hospital,
I passed the market one december
afternoon:
Tall, Grand and
crowned with gulls.
On my way to the market, I passed a
park entrance;
A park with a line of trees on its
northern side,
Beyond which rose the brown tower,
Grand like the crest of a mighty
château.
Even from there, it said:
"Come and visit via yonder path".
Yet on I travelled to a church with a
drinking well;
But about turned to the park to follow
the tower's call:
Through the boundary,
Past suspect Elms;
Past a man counting his steps
on the grass;
Around a path that had turned into a
pool of water and mud;
Then up a road with the edge
of a rampart,
A road at the top of which I stopped to
wipe the mud from my trainers.
Stopped and looked beyond
the rampart;
Beyond fingered trees and hard against
the pale northern sky,
The old hospital so similar to a
dark-hued château:
Tall,
Majestic,
right out of a fairy-tale.
Home I returned, but the tower has not left my sight;
A place in a story,
A mighty palace;
Yet one thing I do hope is that my window's view will
reveal the Three Towers again.