Posted by Admin on 25 May 2006, 12:00 am
Pseudo-Greek, superbly placed,
overlooking land that sweeps a
league or more from Swainston
to the sea, the temple slowly
yields to time’s decay.
Artist’s whim, the sham façade of
pediment on Doric flutes
stands intact – conceals a
roofless, ravaged chamber which
elements and men conspire to
raze.
Ivy climbs neglected walls:
saplings rise to architrave,
vying with a reredos of
ancient trees.
Wild, profuse, the Island’s flora
grow – besiege the base of columns,
graceful yet – deserving immortality.
Will no local Lucian or
Cicero ensure it?
From The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council