Upon a rounded hill top, above the Cheshire plain.
Castle walls all crumbled, yet still up there you reign.
Often time reverses as re-enactments play
Cannon balls are sounded - actors in mock foray.
Steep bank on one side, neither for friend or foe.
It's up the sloping edge, to get to you we go.
Trees growing on your verges, and fields laid out below.
Some keeping their greenness, while others brown they go.
Within your deepest being, so the tales do say,
a well lies holding treasure, to this very day.
With outer rim still visible, the closer that we get,
your shadow is pure symmetry, before the sun has set.