The Old Ruin of the Britons Chapel

When attempting to write a poem about the plundering of the land of the Britons after the fall of the Roman Empire I tried to come up with a subject that could describe it and then I remembered it. As a child I explored the burned out ruin of the Temple Church near Temple Meads in Bristol. At that time most of that part of our old city was in ruins and children could play in the buddleia jungles that filled most bomb sites. They are also known locally as butterfly bushes.

The Old Ruin of the Britons Chapel

The butterflies abounded there
They fluttered all around
They seemed to fill the hazy air
And covered half the ground

Their colours glistened in the haze
Each fitful flight was brief
They stayed there through long sunny days
To flit ‘tween bloom and leaf

Between the mighty fallen stones
Sweet shrubs had sprouted up
Each bloom seemed like to regal thrones
Where mead filled every cup

The butterflies each drank their fill
Cold winds came and they died
They are not creatures of the chill
So Fate is not denied

Then old leaves glistened with the dew
At Dawn each autumn day
Though skies are still a pastel blue
The Sun’s heat ebbs away

The ruined font contains a pool
Of water clean and clear
But as the weather turns more cool
Dead leaves decay in here

The water loses its green glint
Old things rot all around
Gone is each bloom and floral tint
Still – ivy’s all around

It covers what’s left of each wall
Still green not touched by Death
Close by is heard a pipit’s call
The fox has misty breath

Beneath the ruin in a den
His young had all been raised
They’ve gone beyond the reedy fen
Where all the geese had grazed

The snow and cold embraced the place
Cold stones were powdered white
The hedgehog did not show her face
But slept both day and night

The solstice came the solstice went
The seasons ebb then flow
As Mother Earth’s sweet sleep was spent
Beneath a down of snow

Dry icy mornings then turned wet
Green shoots grew mid the waste
Each day grew longer here and yet
Spring days do not make haste

The slow awakening of a land
Unfolds in weeks not days
Whilst warmer times may be at hand
There’s still no balmy haze

The sunrise in the early spring
Is bright but lacks true heat
Each new shoot is a verdant thing
So winter’s in retreat

The shrubs within the ruin there
Are last to come in leaf
They wait beyond each Easter Fair
Their reign is sweet but brief

The days grow warm the days grow long
Flower buds they seem to swell
There’s new growth that’s more green than strong
That’s where the greenfly dwell

The buds then burst into full bloom
Their scent’s upon the breeze
Forgotten’s all of Winter’s gloom
The land now seems at ease

The butterflies abounded there
They fluttered all around
They seemed to fill the hazy air
And covered half the ground

(From the Saga of the Sorrowful, © T Morgan)