Looking south. Post Office Lane and the old Post Office. The council houses and the road to West Halton lined with trees in the distance.
Photos : Courtesy of John Spilman.
WHITTON CHURCH a poem by Alwyn J. Barley.
Her only voice the Tolling Bell;
God's house of prayer, a Sentinel.
Haughty and proud she stands alone
With strong men's hands hewed out of stone.
The`Norman Tower' a history page,
Does anyone know the exact age?
She's been part of Christian lore
To congregations, here before.
Her view commands the Humber Tide,
To mariners of old. . . a guide.
Through centuries of storm and gale
Tugs and Steamers, Sloops of sail.
But come with me thro' Belfry door,
Tread reverently o'er hard stone floor.
Along the font we pause and view,
In scroll, some names of pals I knew.
Yes. . . the two Great Wars took their toll,
The inscription there, it tells us all.
`We went with others for Freedom's sake'
We had to give. . . He had to take !
Now we pass by empty pews.
I feel him beckon to me and you.
To his altar there to see,
Its simple beauty, in reality.
Loving hands have tendered here,
With gifts of flowers, year by year.
But carry on through the choir stalls
And feel his presence within these walls.
Come and see the vestry there,
Surplice and cassock but, Oh ! So bare.
I bow my head, I'm filled with shame,
I too, forgot his holy name.
But close your eyes and go back years
Recall the happiness and tears.
Hear the hymn we used to sing,
Those oaken rafters seem to ring.
As we worshipped beneath his eyes,
The humble poor, the rich, the wise.
Return along the silent nave,
Outside we see the lonely grave,
Of parishioners there laid to rest.
Kin and kinfolk passed the test.
The grey old tower, she seems to say.
Jesus, himself, did pass this way.
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