THE REMAINS OF ST MARY-LE-PORT.

Underneath the raised hook of a rainbow

slouched in a cradled heap on the Summer’s green,

Seagull piercing the river’s gentle flow

like a heritic star gleaming our daydreams.

Couples walk on stones of the tainted brave

lurid-looking wind rambles a punched wall,

old brewery stands as nostalgia is slaved

below the ancient river to this murky soul.

On a limpid path of sheer plights of solitude

square-like hedges of concrete green,

ghosts of a black-gowned Calvinist broods

beneath a bay hung from a wooden beam.

Jaded pinnacles brushing a fawn coloured tree

leaves camouflage a crumbled Roman dial,

incursive derelict floor of mahogany debris

laid traffic cones smouldered on stick-less tiles.

The ruin of a burnt out church is laid bare

beside a half brick wall dressed in rustic vine,

a tiresome grin in the sunlight’s bony stare

catching the breath where summer can still shine.

MJ DUGGAN.