Trapped inside, old dust and time,
Long cordoned plot of earth.
Its voice an ageless bell-tower chime,
Present-world resisting girth.

Custodians resting in its garden,
Chiselled life on weathered stone.
Its cloister, gift of worldly pardon,
Where past-times seeds are sown.

This church has seen an age of years,
As they assail life, brick and mortar.
And yet for its clock, has patient ears,
The hour, the half and quarter.

So many hopefuls baptised here,
Prayers proffered through pleading hands.
But one by one they disappear,
Released from life's demands.

It speaks of all for whom this was,
A place of congregation,
All those invited in because,
It offers peace, a pause, placation.

And I am now one of its fold,
For who its time seems still, suspended.
Until I become its newest old,
When my days are also ended.