From my window


    Towers spring between me and


    the horizon;


    One, an old hospital,


    Two are churches.


    In more distant times,


    a third church,


    An orange and white meat


    market;


    And a brown tower could also


    be spied;


    But,


    whilst the third church lies


    in the realm of the old hospital,


    I passed the market one december


    afternoon:


    Tall, Grand and


    crowned with gulls.


    On my way to the market, I passed a


    park entrance;


    A park with a line of trees on its


    northern side,


    Beyond which rose the brown tower,


    Grand like the crest of a mighty


    chateau.


    Even from there, it said:


    "Come and visit via yonder path".


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Yet on I travelled to a church with a


    drinking well;


    But about turned to the park to follow


    the tower’s call:


    Through the boundary,


    Past suspect Elms;


    Past a man counting his steps


    on the grass;


    Around a path that had turned into a


    pool of water and mud;


    Then up a road with the edge


    of a rampart,


    A road at the top of which I stopped to


    wipe the mud from my trainers.


    Stopped and looked beyond


    the rampart;


    Beyond fingered trees and hard against


    the pale northern sky,


    The old hospital so similar to a


    dark-hued chateau:


    Tall,


    Majestic,


    right out of a fairy-tale.


    Home I returned, but the tower has not left my sight;


    A place in a story,


    A mighty palace;


    Yet one thing I do hope is that my window''s view will


    reveal the Three Towers again.