WIP 

Beside St Catherine’s hill, the river Itchen,

Still protect

Parapets and tower stand stonily in the mire

No spire soars upward, yet God is still admired

Of Wintonian water meadows. Sheltered

In Oram’s arbour, rows of Georgian villas

Where bees find nectar in the bougainvillea

Look genteely downenevolently down on the town.

Jane Austen lies in peace, amongst the Saxon kings

Within the cathedral walls.

We look up at the Rose window.

Above, the peregrine falcons raise their young,

Secure high amongst the gargoyles, but watched by webcam.