\'Neath feet torn and trod
by men without God.
Loose leaves lie and bleed
their crucified creed.
West wind bites the cheeks,
in pride of the peaks:
that home in the hills
of souls without skills.
Grey clouds hang their heads
o\'er frail flower beds.
Through panes angels peep
at babes as they sleep.
Raw rain runs down drains
as tourists on trains
pull up into town
as locals just frown.
Leaves gold, yellow, bronze:
God\'s holy icons
lie with no regrets
as sleepy sun sets.