Pickering Castle

Sun falling slantwise, pooled on cool stones,

Poured over the chapel floor,

Soaking the watery limbs of a summer’s day.

The castled hill, round as a crown,

Rising broken-toothed, open roofed

Under a roaring sky cracked by the wings of martins,

Hangs in the shimmered air

In the lull of September slumber.

I could lie here,

Wound like a fern leaf,

Turned to face the lingering sun,

And touching my fingers to the soft polished grasses

For an age.

But through the arrow loop,

Beneath the distant looming 

Purple gloom of hills,

The road measures the miles to my home.

I am called and I cannot stay.