At St Michael’s

St_Michaels

It’s just the old church, blue clock face,
Another building, commonplace.
How many people passing by
Have ever paused to briefly try
And wake its sleeping history?
Each stone weighed down with mystery,
With lives forgotten, lost romance.
See how the tower stands askance
And angled in the lurch
From the body of the church?
It’s been like that a thousand years.
A witness to so many tiers
Of time; events this old place saw,
From Jacobites to civil war.
The dissolution, wakes and plague –
All echoes of some by gone age.
The carving added, almost lately,
Has bared it arse since fourteen eighty.
The vicars’ board, a pick and mix
Of names; eleven ninety-six
The oldest. Norman columns, skewed,
Hold sagging eaves above the pews
And have done for nine hundred years.
The squint where lepers used to peer
On services. All firebrands,
Inscribed by history’s heavy hand,
And yet, we walk past every day,
Without a glance. Just commonplace.

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