In Attendance Poem by Ian Bowen

From here, high on my favourite hill,
I see the line of black cars
that crawl along,
lead by a rooftop of flowers.

A small church
with wet flint walls,
flinches
at the gravel crunch
of today's visitors.

Moist hankerchiefs
are clutched in black gloves
as chins rest on chests.
Nobody knows
what to do with their hands
as they pick up a book...

and from here, high on my favourite hill,
I hear the strains... of my requested song.