“So I cut some cord, and I shouldn’t have done it…”

The southwest tower is haunted by a skeletal horse. Few people see it, but at sunset, you might hear it sing.

KINDERLIED

As I was riding to Banbury Cross,
Lazily lilting of lovers in loss,
Out swept a seeress who sneered down her nose:
“He shall have music wherever he goes.”

As I was riding to Banbury Square,
Twined in a tribute to tumbledown hair,
Out skipped a maid: “Are you singing for me?”
Studied and sober, I stared at the sea.

As I went riding to Banbury Street,
Rhyming a romance with riddles replete,
Out slouched a spinster: “Perchance it’s my day?”
Crabbed and confounded, I cursed the delay.

As I was riding to Banbury Lane,
Poignantly piping of passion and pain,
Out shuffed a widow: “Can you see his face?”
Piqued and impatient, I parted apace.

As I went riding to Banbury Road,
Wide by the wayside that wisdom bestowed,
Out rose a hymn: Every rapturous word
Rang through the alleyway. Nobody heard.

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