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Brentor

They built a church...

By Simon WardPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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Isolated outlier, virulent against the landscape

casting sharp shadows deep over Brinsabach.

Raise your eyes to see the commendations,

solemn reminders of such noble lives.

But this was no mausoleum, not in the years before,

a time when the seasons counted more than the days.

Old straight tracks converge, clustering in abeyance,

clammering for attention. Lines in the landscape

scouring grooves across liquid green fields,

misaligned hedges disrupting natural intentions.

Stannary trackways, perhaps Roman roads,

pushed through regardless, carving paths

back to Kit Hill and forward to where

the maidens dance to an earthly tune.

Saintly warrior, angelic one, you were late to the fight.

It was an audacious coup! Denunciations and invocations,

accusations of devilry, when, in truth, they merely objected

to the ruination of her rule. Stone piled high heralding

your name, overlaying ancient alignments, usurping

her place, to sit, smug and righteous, on a Rowan throne.

Yet she cares not, and there’s the irony. What worry to her

to see stone piled upon stone, when she measures

time by the millennium. Rebuild as you wish, replenish

your beliefs, as you repoint your works, limewashing

the cracks and crevices, but know that while the

Galaxy wheels and the Cosmos drifts on, only the

earthly power beneath will survive the journey.

nature poetry
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About the Creator

Simon Ward

Freelance writer and editor, currently itinerant.

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