The Church of my dreams exists.

At least the building does.

Where all the marriages over centuries have taken place,

Where the bodies from many wars not started here are buried.

Where the people who used to come, stopped coming,

Where the Crown took their divinity to heart,

Where others return to,

Infrequently.

Still the Church stands,

Amongst the few trees which surround,

Defiant, yet still welcoming.

Like a Constable scene waiting for my appearance.