ascending the tower of St Mary's Church
to view as far as Weston on this clear day.
Yet her ageing legs had other ideas:
the narrow perilous stone staircase stretching
ahead as if a vast mountain.
She retreated out of the church
to Old St Mary's across the village,
entering the iron gates to another world
where graves had been moved, it was overgrown,
a rainbow of flowers patrolled by butterflies
the church stripped to its foundations
now with no regrets about the tower,
fully enchanted by nature's power.