Gatehouse Cally Temple

The narrow track insinuates through the wood

The ground dark-stained below pale beech

Under a trickle of light, trace of mud;

The grey stone walls no broad landscape can reach;

Not the shadow of travellers passing by

The mud-soft sound of plodding feet, it feels

Abandoned now, no noise or echoing cry

No joy of living presence will it reveal

Just grey-blue-stone-blind windows, no roof cover

An emptied pit, red-cup fungus, spikes of moss

Tall tower walls block the cattle drover

His view obscured, shrouded, a sense of loss

And those who visit observe wistfully,

Don’t build to impress; its just a folly!

John Priestley


The Temple: Diary

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