Tales of a Churchmouse

When I arrive and leave my bike
Without the Churchyard gate,
My mind dwells then on monuments,
The humble and the great.

I leave the porch through Norman arch,
If door is not shut fast!
To leave this present world behind
and dwell then with the past.

My camera bag I leave in pew,
Or on the beechwood chair.
As from the floor to roof I view
And find who once was there.

Small tablet, or giant tomb
I care not as I look,
Of people past who left their mark
On stone as in a book.

The stones, which now much interest me,
Are not the families wails,
But the edifice with many lines,
So full of praise and tales.

The amusing, words, which I so like,
Were often scribed before
On the instruction of deceased.
Who now lies ‘neath the floor.

I love the carvings, so life like,
The Byrds, Greens and Rysbrack.
Some Churches now of these are full.
But congregations lack!

The Brasses in the chancel tiles
So many do attract,
Their rubbings hang on many walls,
In white or gold on black.

The windows bright, so multihued.
The sun which through them streams,
Most ancient. but some modern too
Down on roods painted beams.

As homeward then I make my way,
The sun sets in the west.
I praise my Lord at end of day,
Those days I enjoy best.


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