Surrounded by the rolling hills of debated lands
Hatched verdant and yellow brown,
And shadowed yet by galleon clouds,
The castle rock stands weathered by winds
That blow through elms and ash
Even on uncontroversial days;
And bastions slighted by the hand of men are left monument
Picked at by crows who scale the rickety finger heights
Of accidental crenellations.
I sense a magic here inside the motte,
As sentinel rabbits sniff the air and leap or run
To leave me caught in time awaiting ransom.
15 August, 2016