3PenProblem

The white-faced chapel where once there knelt the faithful, slate-grey quarrying Celt Paint pots stand as modern altar a subtle veneer as the ruins falter But strewn hymn and verse still echo in the fields as the silence to the blasts meekly yield Once i stood all boots and cloth hands in pockets, now flies a moth Remember where i sat on pews gathered strength from collective muse Now all that remains, you can see scattered fragments that once were we