Old Chapel Wreathed in Weeds

Old chapel wreathed in weeds what hymns once echoed in your
rafters
What furtive glances fluttered like butterflies over your marble
aisle
What dreams occupied your worshippers' minds, what golden
laughter
Was stifled by your dusty air, what damnation, what endless trial
Was foreseen by your sombre-cloaked ministers, what days
Of shining, humid summer were smothered by your grey, forbidding
walls
What thoughts cruised like burning motes suspended in your rays
Of multi-coloured sun. I can only guess. Your musty, gloomy halls
Are silent now, and cars muffled in the distance, soar past
Reminders of a newer age, and you decline as yew trees
Scratch like spoilt children at your cracked stained-glass
And your gravestones greenly crumble, moulding leaves
Waltz in the wind at your creaking gate
While your timbers groan, and it's far too late.