Tuesday, 2 April 2019

Tory Party

They lie, still scattered in the long dead weeds,
The remnants of a once important church,
Which in its day had grown so vast and broad
Its old foundations had begun to sink.
Its congregation did not spot its needs,
Its slipping went unnoticed, save one lurch
Leftwards, but shifts like that could be ignored,
No need for restoration, or to think
Of consequences. Further damage caused
By cracks and widened joints might weather well,
And concrete, reinforced and grey cement
Would save the day, if such a day should dawn.
So nobody took stock and no one paused,
As first the slates and then the timbers fell,
Though one old warden sang a sad lament,
His fellows turned their backs, quite full of scorn.
The congregation quickly moved away,
They felt a sadness, but did not despair,
Knowing it was something more than pale stone
They loved about the place, an old idea
Of something greater than themselves. They say
The old place might be built again, with care,
But better leave it scattered here, alone,
A broken monument to those who sneer,
And won’t hold fast to what is proven good,
Preferring to destroy with kitten heels,
By chipping at the pillars and the vaults
And ploughing blindly on oblivious,
While beetles eat away the ancient wood.
Yes, better leave it be, for it reveals
A clearer lesson on our human faults

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