Stone

These walls have seen some life.
Stone faced as all the years of life scrape past.
These walls have left scratches on the folks within,
But little have they changed, just a bit darker like the mood now.

Some of the cathedrals to stone have gone,
We didn't need em any longer.
Working worship fell from fashion and moved abroad,
But these walls which gave a home to those indoors, remain.

If it were home time and the working fella came walkin now,
He'd see these walls in the same perspective.
Only thing is the picture's changed.
The view'ld give him a clue of sommat different.

Satellite dishes have been screwed in to the veins of life.
Bins with wheels'ld be like back alley foreigners.
Rubbish on the wind is fatter now,
And shouts of friendship have been sworn out of use.

Washing lines of chatter have been hidden behind fences,
And them that might remember sit alone like us all.
There'll still be a nod and the odd "how do"
But no one seems to recognise themselves any more.

That fella walkin home were following a line a'purpose.
Mill had a purpose, pub had a purpose.
Houses had a purpose and privies had a purpose.
Sunday had a purpose, churches had a purpose, silence had a purpose too.

"What's the purpose?" I hear him say.
"What are they doing all day?  Seems a great deal of effort to do nowt!"
"Why have they got nowhere to go and no bog to sit on?"
"At least these walls are still standing!"

Still the stone looks on....