Chislehurst

Chalk white, pitch black,
And silent as the grave.
Druids, Romans, Saxons
Echo through the rock,
Like flint sparks in the tinderbox;
Here and gone, only ghosts remain.
Fifteen thousand nocturnal refugees,
My father’s generation,
As lost to the labyrinth,
As those that went before.
But every inch of darkness
Was chiselled out by men,
Druids, Romans, Saxons
Echo down the years,
Chalk white, pitch black,
And silent as the grave.