These rough stones,
carried for miles to build
such a Castle,
mounted on fields
of bitter sweet slopes.
Stoned lions,
countrified gargoyles
hunch, unpouncing;
their stiff glares fixed
on us fee paying visitors,
taking a stroll through
the dusty chapters,
the library dungeons.
And I would suppose
this afternoon to be,
for us, some piece of history,
both strolling through
crisis after crisis,
hearts beating heart beats
and blood warm, flowing
through us as we walk between
such cold walls,
older than a Duke,
but never as wise as this love of mine
nor as fragile as
that historic moment inside the Castle
when once you smiled at me
so wonderfully.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
Alnwick Castle, Northumberland
(published in From Both Sides of Hadrian’s Wall.
Contemporary poetry from south Scotland and north England)
