Dryburgh** Poem by Neil Young

A name, a date,
A place I've never heard of
Inscribed here in this
Book of ruined Scottish abbeys.
A souvenir purchased there
Before I'd even learned to walk.
Since dissolution, vandalism, theft,
This catalogue of Abbeys
Succumb to weather's cruel hands.
Scabbed fingers wear them down.
Historians and families
With heritage membership
Piece them back together.
Children play, imagining they're
Merlin or King Arthur.
Sheep graze unaware
Of these monastic fragments;
The solitude of former prayerful ways.