From here, high on my favourite hill, <br />I see the line of black cars <br />that crawl along, <br />lead by a rooftop of flowers. <br /> <br />A small church <br />with wet flint walls, <br />flinches <br />at the gravel crunch <br />of today's visitors. <br /> <br />Moist hankerchiefs <br />are clutched in black gloves <br />as chins rest on chests. <br />Nobody knows <br />what to do with their hands <br />as they pick up a book... <br /> <br />and from here, high on my favourite hill, <br />I hear the strains... of my requested song.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-attendance/
