Embracing arms,
a measure of the time and tide,
stand still, stand stoic
against the worst of winds and waves,
cradling charges
in their calmer water
or on their safer sand.
On God-forsaken days
of wind and rain
these greystone structures
collect their craft,
fretting for the unreturned;
foreboding felt from
mortal memories.
Late afternoons
or even evenings
will lighten
when the last one in
comes home.
On gentler, gladder days
of sun and soundless waves
the light, bright walls are warm receptors
for the watchers and the waiters,
observing flying, fishing birds,
and busyness of men in boats,
with others casting lines,
or doing nothing more
than throwing thoughts
out to the blue of sea and sky.
And passing time
until the evening light
nudges the last one home.
Another, different day will come
to change our mood,
and make us harbour other
thoughts and feelings.
Here, at the village heart,
witnessing down the years
every known and felt event,
the ancient walls will stay indifferent.
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