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.
Shall I intrude
Into their quietude?
The wind sings
As I,
Alone
Pass by
Gravestone.
Time has stopped,
For those below.
I have the clock
And somewhere to go.
But the wind sings
Softly to me
In the churchyard tree.
Why do I rush to pass
Those who walk the churchyard path?
I reach my home
And leave behind the path
Along which all must pass,
To a place where bones
Find their final home,
Under a cold stone.
“He liked to rhyme
And was fond
Of women
And wine,
And sinning.
Now he has gone beyond
Women,
And wine,
And sinning.
And he is out of time
For rhyme”.
The tombstones look back at me
And will continue to be,
When I can no longer see.
For now, I hear
Vehicles passing near
This place of bone
And stone,
And will spend a little time
In rhyme
I am skin,
Sin,
Lust
And dust.
And one day I shall be thrust
Into a place
Where no trace
Of who I am now will be found
For underground
There is no sin or lust,
Only dust
Which once was thee or me
All around
I hear
The sound
Of birds in the graveyard near
To my home.
As I walk alone,
Through this place of bone,
A thought profound,
“Those underground
Can not hear”.
When on my way
Through the churchyard today
I nearly fell,
I knew well
That one day,
There I will stay
K Morris - Poet 