I heard the owl cry.
The churchyard is close by
The dead weep not
In their little plot.
Only I heard him cry,.
Then found my temporary sleep.
I heard the owl cry.
The churchyard is close by
The dead weep not
In their little plot.
Only I heard him cry,.
Then found my temporary sleep.
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.
Walking home
Alone
At night
I see the passing street light.
I find
Neither fear nor delight
In the churchyard just
Left behind,
Merely dust
And fallen leaves.
The churchyard is shrouded in snow.
Trees stand stark against the white.
I know
The delight
Of snow
Often do I have cause
For thought, yet seldom pause
Here for long.
Perhaps it is a strong
Desire to forget my fate
Which leads me, (be it early or late),
Without a backward glance
Lest by some mischance
I see my own ghost,
To post-haste, exit the graveyard gate
And enter again
This temporary realm of men.