The air is sweet the grass as pure as rain

The Tower of London bloody past, the deaths, the pain

God can’t exist, the murder tree still reigns

Though children play in dusty little lanes

Where Christ is ringed by fire, the end of time

And fools paint pictures though we have no frames.

The lines of stone protrude from a green lawn

Marking where the Abbey Walls once stood

Near the grave of Harold black rooks caw

Giving me çold shivers in my blood