Abandoned Churchyard

The hymns fell silent in the nineteen-fifties,
As silent as the stones that rest here now,
The population and the prayers are etched
On land where title passed, was bought, or sold.

A sadness lurks among the weft of bramble,
Though softened by the clumps of trees; and leaves
Effuse distinctive odour, unbent stems
All topped with pure white edibles, wild garlic.

I chose a path towards three bare-faced stones,
The names sandpapered down by wind-blown dust,
And patches scoured by weather’s frost and heat,
One leans on tree, one lists, the third stands straight.

The building harbours new remembrances,
The generation ‘Now’ paints epitaphs
That will be read in future ramblings here,
And be just as forgotten as sandpapered stones.

So paint your triple pointed crown and write,
Create the ‘Bow’, descend a line from ‘S’,
Attach the heart to this and date your mark;
Until the colour dies, you live, 1/7/17.

The lime tree’s girth suggests, by chance, this seed,
The rising sapling, blessed by Helios,
Would grant its age in double centuries,
With ivy’s hair and leaves a later adjunct.

The moss of time weaves through the nooks and crannies
Of this forgotten monument laid here,
Undignified twofold by broken cross
Lent casually across the lower edge.

Two stones, the names sandpapered down, lang syne,
Are patterned as if built of tiny bricks.
The course would seem to lack the Master’s touch,
But skilful hand of Nature chisels this design.

*****

On my return, some five months hence,
And after storms had hit this place,
Blocked path – huge branch creates a fence,
And Nature gifts a brand new space.

When time has passed and gifts unwrap,
When once again a storm may brew,
What once stood tall may now lie flat,
As once did lying bodies, too.