English clouds, a bastion of the sky,
turrets of grey and crenellated whites,
ghost of tar spilled and spilling,
scorched stone scars underfoot;
ascending the bridge to the old oak doors,
we enter the Inner Bailey, you and I,
a carpet of grass unscuffed through winter
undulates; and sunrays highlight History,
shadows like mirages of memory falls on
Mortimers Tower within the curtain wall,
and the Ice Tower at the far end, an iron gate
ensuring we dont fall, the dungeons imagined
beneath filled perhaps with death,
or just spiders and dust, musty and damp:
and in Magdalene's chapel faces stare
inwards from the circumference,
faces of Medieval whores, suggested,
a desecrated ground for love, as we
denegrate the lookout sanctum to makeout cove,
and scratch our love on the wall...
children picking holes in our time as laughs
threaten around the corridors of old stone,
(we question our own maturity)
shadows pass past peepholes.
Up spiral staircases, vision hindered,
around and around, watching feet fall
in footfalls, passing skeins of light;
ascension cuts breath like a guillotine.
Victory is seen for miles in the camera lens,
the English flag spread in the wind;
the cross, this history, this land of green seen there,
it could be yours for conquering.
I hope you seige the castle walls;
find a home inside them in my keep.