Sacred Site

His newborn wings formed by ancient light

Lift him high above England green and pleasant land

Yet bittersweet the sight below

Broken monuments where stained glass no longer glows

No limit to pilgrim’s footfall

Still, they come to climb the ridge where the tower stands

Soothe worn out feet in water that ever flows

Quench their thirst from the White Spring spray

Where no salt lies within

Joseph’s blossom tree has stood the test of time

Offers shade, rest awhile

Hear the whispered songs of old

Feel the beat of ancient wings where power still remains…