Now this little church, I remember it well.

Both from my childhood and near where we dwell.

A prominent spot, it stands high on a hill,

That holds many memories and always will.

There, mounted on top just one single bell,

It's solitary note people know really well.

I sang in the choir for a number of years.

Remembering sorrow, laugher and tears.

My brother and sister lie buried here,

Died young and innocent, knowing no fear.

The days when the church was full to the door,

 Have dwindled, just not the same anymore.

But while ever it stands, it will bring home to me,

Glorious thoughts that forever will be.

by WILLIAM KITSON

of Westwood