Sprouting like a tired grey mushroom
From cloyed earth,
It sits, observing village life.
Through pestilence, famine, dearth.
Stalwartly marking time
For its usual incumbent villains, and
Occasional innocents and victims
Lashed within its walls.
Although it acted as refuge,
And in times of plague, a morgue.
So many city bodies passed within.
But now, it serves only as
A relic of days past
Into Liverpool's girth.
A curio or oddity,
Which gives the locals mirth
And the youth a space
It has flourished in the shade
Of the City's wall.
By Alison Eley