There is still the echo of cannon-fire
tucked inside the alcoves
the shadow of men with broadswords
across the window ledges,
whispers of skirts on floorboard,
creaking corsets and stubborn doors,
murmured lovers’ words,
and the echo of a family,
some gone, some misplaced, some safe.
We remember the thrum of armies,
where they marched on stone, on grass, on soil.
Where we lay, were built, and fell,
where you now walk on summer days
when the sun is high and bright,
and there was nothing else much to do
but visit local sights.
We will stand here still,
until the years pass on too far,
and then there will be no stories for us to tell
and no walls to talk anymore.
Don’t entirely sure what I think of this piece as my brain’s a little fried from working on Shadow Dawn for the last four hours. Day one of NaNoWriMo done, twenty-nine left to go.
Anyway, I was going to give poetics a miss tonight but the prompt ‘if these walls could talk’ just took me straight to Morton Corbet Castle in Shropshire and I had to write something.