Gill McEvoy
Beeston Castle seen from the south wall of St Helens Church, Tarporley
A grim headache
squatting on its ridge,
black spider brooding
on a history
of arrows, boiling oils,
spilt blood darkening its stones.
Winds carve crude weaponry
from rock - blade and saw-toothed edge,
A creep of trees advances
up one flank, birds cling
in the furious air
below its walls.
Held between elbows
of reverend stone
I loll in a hammock of sun, while
round me bees among flowers
mumble a music like prayer.
Mike Wood
Written in June ’95 on a school staff INSET day at Beeston!
Beeston Castle
Old stones,
Selected for secure defence
Weathered into insecurity;
Raw red sandstone
Marinated in history,
Pierced and plundered by
A slanting shaft of concrete.
The stones that resisted so long
Now enlisted in the captivity
Of a host of paying patrons
Conniving at the weather’s wearisome work
Whereby the castellated towers
Crumbled to an easy entrance.
The gates which resisted so long
The enemy’s battering tree-trunk
And the soldier’ solemn siege
Now widen their wanton welcome
Admitting an easy entrance
For a pauper’s ransom.
The guarded gated garrison
Despoiled, yet displayed and arrayed
For the everyday enemy’s visit.
The unimpressed schoolchild
Permitted an easier entrance
Than the strongest adult –
The solemn sullen centuries
Culminate in cheap surrender.
The waisted well
Once succour to beleaguered sentinels
No longer proves protection for a hoard
Has substituted gold and silver’s pretty penny
For a confetti of discarded wrappers.
This once serried eminence,
Ranulf’s pride and joy
Is echoingly mocked across the valley
By Peckforton’s young pretender.
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