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Silenced now, this hallowed ground,
No more to echo and resound
To barked commands, the beating drum,
The bugle, calling all to come
To muster, or to beat retreat,
In winters chill and summers heat.
The ghosts are still there, looking down,
And Sergeant Majors grimace, frown,
That it has come to this, their dream,
The place where they once ruled supreme,
Is now a desolate, lost space,
Their pride, now tainted, in disgrace.
Forlorn, untended now, it lies,
With cracks and weeds in slow demise.
Flanked by two pillars, mute and gaunt,
Once welcoming, but now to haunt
The memory of what had been,
Guardians of the changing scene.
Greensward now rings this lonely square,
Where wooden buildings once stood there,
And echoes of youths, in their prime,
Resound down corridors of time,
Bringing poignant memories,
Of former glories, in reprise.
The garden occupies the space
Where Guardroom once took pride of place,
Now, standing testament of where
Young boys began to learn, prepare
For life, in military role,
Succumbs, as progress takes its toll.
But, while there still exists a man,
Who proudly can proclaim, “ I am
An ex-boy out of Arborfield”,
Then this old square will never yield,
Or ever be forgot by they
Who knew it in its glory day.