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.
Since dissolution, theft,
Now vandalism, weather’s cruel
Fingers wear them down.
Only historians, 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.
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