Castle

Castle

 

There comes a time when even echoes

Find their vanishing-point, and anything

Resembling a ghost has fled to the world

Of silence. Rainwater, soft as spittle,

Wears out stones. Hard mortar crumbles

In wind. I like it best when the elder tree

Claims her portion of soil on the utmost

Tier of the castle-keep, her worming roots

Holding the structure together, or when

The castle’s reflection has more solidity

Than the thing itself, and embrasure and

Architrave become ripples. Time and nature

Have their way with her. Gaunt herons

Are her guardians. Moss overcomes.

 

There’s grace

In her collapse.

History is

The realm of babes.

 

Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.

The picture shows a reflection of Oxford Castle in the River Isis, known further downstream as the Thames.

Done