poetry diary

Always there;
embedded in your town,
like the patrician you are
and somehow always have been.

Haughty and magnetic;
drawing people now,
and warriors then,
like a wick –
a wick to war, so apt
to your name
and the role you play.

I like the orange glow at night:
the warm lit walls against the night
reflected in the river;
windows flash and flags implied
on slightly random towers.

Too many windows, though,
to defend –
your power is much more subtle.

You haven’t passed a thousand years
without knowing how to flatter
and adapt:
a twenty-first century castle,
conceived in nine fourteen.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes

Not sure about this one – I may try some major variants. I play tennis beneath these walls twice a week.