Jack Beeching
The Miliary Museum in the Church of Santa Irene
This mortar, hid in weeds, might be a bell.
Green grass, grey cobwebs, on the gallery stone
Turkish graffiti: Kilroy left his name.
The cannon rust, the yellow wall turns dun;
That fallen bell could be a captured gun.
Stairs to the honeycomb gallery shift and groan.
A lump of plaster tumbles to the floor.
Their giant cross was lepered by the rain,
Their Christian features fell into decay;
The substance of those paintings dropped awvay.
Officials are preparing to restore.
A scaffold leans against a broken wall.
No chant, no secular glory any more;
Here comes a soldier, leaning on a broom:
Kilroy, whose king is dead, whose choir dumb.
Page(s) 18
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