Your stone-

Like fallen soldiers,

Lost heroes-

Lies in dismay:

Dislodged from home

And yet sitting in your shadow.

Others, raped,

Nestle against grey stones walls

Or prop up metal fences.

Trees – now friendly neighbours who

Keep you company as the wind blows

Through abandoned doorways –

Once pulled you apart

As roots invaded the smallest crevasses.

Where are your knight’s of old?

Your visiting kings

And benevolent ladies?

Where are your roaring fires,

And woven tapestries –

Your life blood and homely solace?

Poor Pendragon,

Gazing out over heath and heather,

Embraces each curious tourist

With its bewitching charm.

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