The Military Museum

This mortar, hid in weeds, might be a bell.
Green grass, grey cobwebs, on the gallery stone
Turkish graffiti: Kilroy left his name.
The cannon rust, the yellow wall turns dun;

That fallen bell could be a captured gun.

Stairs to the honeycomb gallery shift and groan.
A lump of plaster tumbles to the floor.
Their giant cross was lepered by the rain,
...