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 at 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
Epilogue
The Church has left the building;
And all that now remains
Are memories of those who worshipped here.
Their sadness and elation,
From poor and happy days,
Consigned to conflagration
Or to heaven’s lasting praise.
No more the doors will beckon strangers in
Nor see a white-gowned bride upon the step;
No more the final journey of a friend
Carried shoulder-high at their life’s end.
I stand amid the dust and desolation,
Where pitch-pine pews once gleamed;
And gaze at the vacant windows
Where once the morning sunrays beamed
Upon the people praying to their God.
Yet now, in all its shattered glory,
There is a strange twist to this story,
Where once were Easter bonnets, gloves and hats,
Residing in the sanctuary of the tower
Is a colony of bats.
© 2014 Colin Gordon-Farleigh
