Its garden still bequeaths its brightest flowers To ador Saint Michaels church. The alter wreathed with it's scented bowers The pews bedecked with Silver Birch. The ancient well gives of its water clear To fill the Saxon bowl. And with tilted head a child held dear Is wetted to save its soul. It's apple Its trees still bear Russet fruit In the season of the year. The small round pond where swims the newt And frogs in courtship you hear. At night when owls do glide on silent wing, Black bats do sally forth. A child's old swing swayed gently by the wind, Cooled by snows to the north. Robert Harrison