From my window

  Towers spring between me and

  the horizon;

  One, an old hospital,

  Two are churches.

  In more distant times,

  a third church,

  An orange and white meat

  market;

  And a brown tower could also

  be spied;

  But,

  whilst the third church lies

  in the realm of the old hospital,

  I passed the market one december

  afternoon:

  Tall, Grand and

  crowned with gulls.

  On my way to the market, I passed a

  park entrance;

  A park with a line of trees on its

  northern side,

  Beyond which rose the brown tower,

  Grand like the crest of a mighty

  chateau.

  Even from there, it said:

  "Come and visit via yonder path".

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  Yet on I travelled to a church with a

  drinking well;

  But about turned to the park to follow

  the tower’s call:

  Through the boundary,

  Past suspect Elms;

  Past a man counting his steps

  on the grass;

  Around a path that had turned into a

  pool of water and mud;

  Then up a road with the edge

  of a rampart,

  A road at the top of which I stopped to

  wipe the mud from my trainers.

  Stopped and looked beyond

  the rampart;

  Beyond fingered trees and hard against

  the pale northern sky,

  The old hospital so similar to a

  dark-hued chateau:

  Tall,

  Majestic,

  right out of a fairy-tale.

  Home I returned, but the tower has not left my sight;

  A place in a story,

  A mighty palace;

  Yet one thing I do hope is that my window's view will

  reveal the Three Towers again.

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