Walking through the graveyard in the pouring rain
I do not feel alone
Nor do I regret the wet
For I can feel the heavy rain
While those who sleep beneath the gravestones
Are company for me.
And these old churchyard trees
Thrive in the rain.
I passed by men mowing the churchyard grass.
When I came that way again
The men had passed, to go and mow
Some other grass perhaps.
I have walked the churchyard path
So oft , and passing by graves have coughed
Due to the hay.
One day the mower will pass,
And I will lie under the churchyard grass.
I never count my steps as I pass
Along the churchyard path.
Though as I have past
By faded old gravestones
And seen the churchyard trees
Bare of summer’s leaves,
I have known all steps lead me home.
I touch the gravestone
Warm from the afternoon sun.
I have come
Here alone,
Many a time
My mind
Full of rhyme.
But under the cold gravestone
There is neither sun
Nor rhyme.
I passed
Puddles on the churchyard path.
But when
I came that way again
I saw them no more.
How quickly men
Pass by
Puddles on the churchyard path,
And how soon they die.
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
The wet churchyard earth
Speaks of nature’s rebirth.
The graveyard grass smells fresh.
I see life and death.
The tombstones stand out white
In the sun’s light.
I wonder, as I go
Whether those now below
Lived their days in light?
And, when I go
Will those who pass
Along this path
Pause, and sigh,
And think as I?
More often than not
I stop
By the graveyard plot
Where a soft breeze
Rustles trees.
Yet, outside this spot
I hear it not.
On a chilly winter’s night
The song of a bird
I heard
As he sang to me
From a churchyard tree.
Such delight,
And poignancy.
But that was in me.
K Morris - Poet 