Haworth Methodists Poem by C Richard Miles

Unprepossessing squat stone
Surmounting Haworth Brow
The chapel sits
Almost unbattered by
Denuding time.
Yet, in its four stout, square walls,
The faith has
Crumbled into dust.
Once fervent flocks
Of congregation, sheep
Cut to a rump;
Then even they
Were butchered to the bone.
But even this
Forsaken edifice
Can claim a link
That ties it to the present,
Bound to me.
- A childhood memory
Of pantomimes on tour
With Sunday school
Where we amused
Packed audiences
With our ropy acting,
Timing all astray
And with sweet song
Though sometimes
Much more loud than sweet
As rash enthusiasm’s grip
Stole sense.
This place
No longer rings
With tune or hymn
But there, perhaps,
Remains an echo
Of a boy
Who still remembers
When these stout, squat stones
Could sing and shout
For joy.