For centuries, Amos, the challenge (and joy) of poetry was to say things WITHIN the limits of metre and/or rhyme - to hell with those who said to hell with that!
Poem 118 of 230: WHALLEY ABBEY...WHAT TALES? - AUTUMN 2000
Cistercian monks have clearly been - Their Abbey's ruins can still be seen; And, sounding for centuries before, Calder flows have passed - seeking the shore. Lords of the grounds have, more lately, stayed - Their manor houses reused and unscathed. Through beautiful gardens insects fly - The ruins of folk just a pass-by; And, by viaduct, trains pass above - Folk thereby viewing a town I love. Anglers and C. of E. delegates, Hikers and tourists, have crossed the gates... Opportunistic masons, kings-men, Model makers, Turner, and men who pen... Perhaps the witches came down from the hill, And do ghosts haunt - still questing their fill..?