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Hello, my dear friend.
We meet once again;
a unique sting of longing
do you never fail to produce in me.
St Leonard's red monolith
stands atop Church Street Hill;
ever a friendly face before night's backdrop,
oddly menacing in the artificial light.
The two churches rise as we approach,
over the bridge which begot your name.
St Mary's stares longingly towards the other;
St Leonard's stands warden looking ahead.
We swing past The George;
those same folk are ever making merry.
Though their hair ever greys and thins,
the same can't be said of their love of mirth and ale.
Up Squirrel Bank; it feels steeper each time.
The Bell and Talbot has changed hands so often,
its once merry hall now sits doubtingly,
sheltering a few with stories of their own.
I'm back in my home; the silence is deafening.
The hearth is cool, no-one is in;
a chilling reminder of days gone by,
before we grew elder, seeking thrill far from your eye's reach.
I've breathed in the freshness of your fields;
I've felt your soil upon my face,
your water up to my knees,
and your birdsong in my ears.
I know not how many more years you will be 'home',
but by name or by heart, you always will be.
I've seen your warts and all of your sorrows,
but you, sweet Bridgnorth, will I always love.
Pádraig Ó Dálaigh
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