Three Poems for the Temple Project, by members of the public, collected during Gala week.


A ruined temple in the forest stands

Built by many, many hands.

Home to a drover, not the usual shack,

Posh at the front, plain at the back.

One man's ostentatious whim

And now Gatehouse people

Pay to immortalise him.



There once was a tumble-down folly

Which the locals thought rather jolly

So they had a whip round

And enough money was found

To repair it, and all said 'O, Golly!'




Late light touches the Temple.

Bats chitter. Cars on the bypass.

Roar. Human folly!


Alan James

The Temple: Diary

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