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
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/.
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.
As I walk through the churchyard,
Along this hard
Path,
I laugh
For although
The day Is cold, those below
Do not know
That it is so
Come the morn
I shall yawn,
Or not.
In the graveyard plot
Tombs stand.
Now my hand
Is hot.
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
More
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”.
