At the Ashton Memorial


The great stone staircase climbs in swing-backs, pulling muscles in our calves,
As we ascend into the heavens. They simply don’t do things by halves
Inside this monument. It’s a folly with a grudge.
It condescends upon its hill like some enormous, sleeping judge,
Dreaming dreams of Lancashire. Now come the smaller rooms upstairs.
Where photographic clubs show off and sunlight floods through leaded squares.
The view’s vertiginous – the castle bathed in faded blue,
The Water Witch, Museum Square, the Priory, all sleeping too.
A wealth of long past history, from Shakespeare’s antique tales,
So ancient most are slumbering still beneath the morning’s pallid veil.
In fact the only ones awake are students cramming for their mocks
Around the park, who from this height resemble beetles reading books.

16 responses to “At the Ashton Memorial

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