My Grandad’s Poetry 5 – Great Budworth Church

Typing up this particular poem has been an interesting journey for me. The titular church has close ties to my family, my parents were married there, as were my brother and his wife back in 2011. My grandad himself, the author of these very poems, lies at rest in its churchyard now, his ashes alongside those of his mother and father in law. His funeral was well turned out and actually brought the little village of Great Budworth to a grinding halt as traffic was forced to wait for the funeral procession to do its thing.

So I guess you could say that Budworth church has sentimental value for me and will have even more come July of this year, when I myself will be getting married there!

Anyway, here is the poem, as always I hope you all enjoy it.

 

Great Budworth Church

Sandstone blocks on the top of the hill

Old wooden beams showing their length

Beautiful windows that colours do fill

Stout oak doors boasting their strength.

 

Stately old tower shelters the bells

Lively weathercock pointing his way

Looks on the houses where honest folk dwell

Makes no noise when they kneel and pray.

 

Look over the pastures and over the mere

Watch gulls flying, below in the sun

Rabbits and hares play without any fear

Of that stealthy shadow loading his gun.

 

Down to the wood pews all notched and worn

Organ pipes staring down, watching us all

Thinking of old times, of large congregations drawn,

By the sound of the bells ringing their call.

 

Eyes to the churchyard, granite and stone

Dark, handsome lych-gate shows us the way

Walk down the old path, see scythe and hone

Cut and then sharpen, as long grass they flay.

 

St Mary’s and All Saints, called by its name

Old village church with stocks on its wall

A reminder of old times, of hardship and pain

When God was respected and worshipped by all.

 

If on a weekday, your visit be

Then the flash of a spade you may see

And the steady rhythm, of its blade on soil

As the digger moves and his muscles coil.

 

What man is this, who works alone

Among the stones and wood and bone

Who sinks his shafts in Budworth clay,

For someone’s life that ends its day.

 

I’ll tell you of the man who diggeth there

A who’ll pray and curse and swear.

A normal chap who lives a good life

And works hard to keep his honest wife.

 

Read on, read on, the following verse

Before the mourners follow the funeral hearse.

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