Tag Archives: graves

The Bird Of Ill Omen

At about 8:30 pm, on Sunday 9 September, I was strolling through All Saints churchyard (https://newauthoronline.com/2018/09/09/graves-and-poems/). As I passed through the graveyard, I heard a voice loud and clear. It was that of an owl, although I was unable to determine whether he was in the churchyard or somewhere close by.

We humans have a great capacity for attributing to living creatures (other than man) significance. On seeing a black cat we think of witches, of bad luck and the horned god himself. Likewise, on hearing the owl, as dusk was falling on an evening in early Autumn, I thought on Macbeth and death. As I did so, my poem “Owl” came to mind, https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/28/k-morris-reading-his-poem-owl-2/.


Some Thoughts On My Local Churchyard

To and fro
Through the churchyard I go
One day I know
That it will not be so.
Why should I care?
For I will not be there
To know.

Of Death and Sex

Gravestones I can not see
Look back at me.
Tomb rhymes with womb,
Or is it the other way around?
Both death and sex are profound
Yet today
We go out of our way
To Avoid speaking of the final sleep.

Stories of sex do our need
For entertainment feed.
We are “shocked”
By a footballer’s disgrace,
Although the smile on our face
Mocks the “shocked”.

The papers care
About morality and titillate
Their readers over their breakfast plate
With stories of how a paedophile was caught
And brought to court
By vigilantes who perhaps encourage the week to do
What they might not otherwise do
By pretending to be an underage kid.
No matter for we are rid
Of another “monster” from our midst.

The gravestones continue to stare,
While the populace care
About the celebrity’s whore.
Perhaps it is a fear of what the grave has in store
That causes the tabloid readers
(Those bottom feeders)
To read
Articles about how the underclass do breed
And gaze at half-naked celebrities capers
In what some call “newspapers”.

Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape

Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.

Passing Through

Walking through the leaves

I perceive

the familiar churchyard.

It is writ large

on these weathered stones

“man is skin and bones.

All we are turns to dust.

Here men are beyond lust.

They sleep fast

And do not ask

Who does pass


With a doleful sigh”.

No more are men buried here.

The place is near

to my home.

I am but skin and bone.

I feel the carpet warm as I write.

The morning light

Will soon dispel the remains of night

For a time at least

then eternal peace.


(All Saints Church is close to my home. The graveyard is long since disused although the existing graves are maintained. http://www.allsaintsuppernorwood.co.uk/).