Tag Archives: graves

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/).

Strange Conversations Hav I had


I halted my walk through All Saints Churchyard and turned enquiringly in the direction of the voice. The speaker, having caught my attention continued thus,

“Why are these leaning? The stones I mean”, he said.

“I don’t know” I replied, continuing on my way home.


Perhaps my response to the above question was a little terse. However I was unsure as to why a total stranger should accost me with such a peculiar question and I had no wish to stand around debating matters about which I knew little, in a churchyard as evening fell. Afterwards however I began to ponder on this strange question. My pondering did not revolve around why gravestones lean (I assume that over time they tend to tilt). Rather my thoughts centred around the people residing under said stones. When one is dead surely one has no interest in whether the stone above your head is dead straight or leaning like a man who has just consumed 10 pints of strong beer? The sleepers in that quiet earth will, I assume rest with the same repose irrespective of whether the stone above their head tilts or stands straight as a die?

The incident brought to mind the closing lines of Brontae’s Wuthering Heights,


“I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton’s only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff’s still bare.

I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth”.

Stopping Off

Bending, I trace the weathered stone resting peacefully in the grass. Being blind I know not who slumbers below, but hope they sleep well.

Birds sing. My dog investigates the plants growing in and around the grave, his warm head finds my hand, looking for an answer, “why have we stopped so close to home?” he seems to ask.

Turning, I run my hands over the rough bark of a huge tree. I notice a split in the midst of this mighty oak. Slowly the tree is dying. It won’t go soon unless storm uproots it but, in time the split will deepen, church wardens will consult. Perhaps staves will be employed to support the tree or, maybe a few blows of the woodman’s axe will bring it down for the safety of the community.

Intellectually I know death will one day find me but, standing here I feel no fear, only a curiosity about this place.

Something Found By A Dog In A Graveyard

My dog found something in a graveyard, was it a bone I wonder? Chomp went his jaws, bone or whatever it was consigned to oblivion, to rumble and tumble in a canine’s stomach. Then out again, back to the ground, from the earth we come and to the earth we shall return.