On the Demise of St John's Church, Runcorn

On the Demise of St John’s, Runcorn

Here, in the sepulchred silence of the dying day,

A hundred years of passing saints have trod;

Some walking proud, some falling on their knees,

But all of them to spend some time with God.

Here, amidst the glory of pitch-pine and lofty height,

They worshipped in the morning and the night.

Where, Sunday by Sunday,

The people prayed,

And the organ played;

Where hymns were sung in unison,

Supported by the choir in their stalls ―

But that’s not all.

Out on the Bowling Green

Where once at Summer Fete

The woods were seen,

It’s now a JCB that tears the soil.

Roses, daffodils, forget-me-not,

Have all fallen to the metal scoop

And lie discarded in a dying heap.

Yet I recall, and not so long ago,

The times I stood in crow-black gown,

And looking down

Upon those worshippers who congregated there,

In pew after pew, where saints have sat and sin has trod,

I shared the Word of God.

© 2013 Colin Gordon-Farleigh