The Folly

The Folly

At Plymouth’s sound, the folly,
its promontory perch assailed by weather’s fist,
stands in sentry stance
to view askance
the daily dallyings of swelling yachts
and the battered toil to-ing and fro-ing
of working craft.
A silent spy upon the navy, which tells no tales
nor whispers secrets.
This is no beacon ruin, no lighthouse guide,
this no proud remnant shaking its fist at time.
Complete in its incompleteness it casts a smile
from a barren hill proclaiming only its presence,
a babled challenge to the passer-by
to fathom its past.
This is the smirk of gentry
raising a grin
from those who know.
The agnostic tower of brick
a labour of comedy.