Unfettered in a bird's-eye flight,
Gliding to the corners of the earth,
To see the familiar and the strange,
Large seas of tarmac, rusting ribs of buried titans,
Multiplexing circuits carved upon the plains,
Turning back to rugby fields and cordoned woods,
To yawning Sussex arching on the Downs.

Twenty sum three,
One unit fallen short,
These leaning sticks on sticks,
Strike out a pose amongst the trees,
Just short the canopy of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait just once!" the clock chastised,
"You take up size like mounting cries,
It shan't be long to reach the ears of suits and ruling ties."

The ashes seem to roll and clump together,
Skidding into mounds and skating into rounded bobbles in the dust,
From the dust again comes beauty,
And a new mind is given,
The image reprinted,
Free from chains to live in chains,
Chains that warm and pull out of danger,
Chains that bend bones into their right place,
Chains that jingles like bells and guide the hands to craft the admirable,
How good are chains like these?
To clothe the dust in righteousness undeserved,
And hold us close to the guiding shepherd,
His back strong and steadfast,
His staff unwavering and kind,
And His voice like the charming wind.