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".

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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.