Old St. Chad's, by Peter Shilston

 (The church of St. Chad's in Shrewsbury fell down at the end of the 18th century, leaving only one small chapel standing. This is usually kept locked, but last week I found some work being gone on the roof, so I bluffed my way in, took some photos and then wrote this poem) 

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"Mind the uneven floor!"

called the big workman from the scaffolding

after admitting me - I fancied with some reluctance -

into the chapel where no-one had worshipped

for more than two hundred years.

Inside, silence and dirt.

Neglected in a corner, an ancient font

perhaps donated by some henchman of the Conquerer.

No holy water there now; just a receptacle

for litter and fag-ends.

On the north wall, a monument

of some Eizabethan family,

the inscription obscured by planks.

And laid upon trestles, or propped against the wall,

coats of arms: heraldic hatchments.

I saw the raven of the Corbets: sable on gold, but now

swathed in cobwebs. Others, ruined beyond repair,

rotted by damp, eaten by rats.

So where are they now, the old Shropshire families,

Montgomery and FitzAlan,

and Leybourn and Pulteney?

Gone forever, 

dust to dust, ashes to ashes,

even their shields illegible,

Sic transit goria mundi.