all saints church | K Morris

I shiver in the churchyard on Halloween.

I have seen

No ghosts, just the open church door.

I am sure

There is nothing there to scare me,

Just ancient bones

Decaying under cold old stones.

It is said

The dead are forever dead.

Yet, when I leave the graves behind

I find the same mundane

Old suburban street, trodden by living feet,

Where quivering and shivering cease.

Bending, I trace the weathered stone resting peacefully in the grass. Being blind I know not who slumbers below, but hope they sleep well.

Birds sing. My dog investigates the plants growing in and around the grave, his warm head finds my hand, looking for an answer, “why have we stopped so close to home?” he seems to ask.

Turning, I run my hands over the rough bark of a huge tree. I notice a split in the midst of this mighty oak. Slowly the tree is dying. It won’t go soon unless storm uproots it but, in time the split will deepen, church wardens will consult. Perhaps staves will be employed to support the tree or, maybe a few blows of the woodman’s axe will bring it down for the safety of the community.

Intellectually I know death will one day find me but, standing here I feel no fear, only a curiosity about this place.