Abbey

The arches spread their tops up to the sky
As if supporting something that's not there;
The tumbled stones are witnesses of why
What once was covered in now almost bare
Of any indication that might hint
At glories lost in former days long gone.
The windswept walls have almost lost the tint
Of paint, as that which swept them marches on:
The wind, forever howling and mad,
The rain that dribbles endlessly about,
The acid in the rain that strips the sad
Vestiges of what was beauty out.
I wonder what they thought that they had left,
Those men who raised the stones that lie bereft.