The rain had come and gone.
Yet still raindrops fell
From branches laden down with rain.
Then, the mower came
To cut grass as I passed
Along the churchyard path
Where the old trees grow
And the dead sleep below.
Neither these trees nor the dead
Will know that I passed
Along this well worn churchyard path
As the mower cut grass
Heedless of rain.
I heard no birds
In the winter churchyard.
It was just
The cold sky
The tombs
And I
On a darkening afternoon.
People passed
Me on the churchyard path,
That I walk
So oft,
Caught in my passing thoughts,
(Many now forgot)
Then came the rain again
To wash all who pass
Along this fleeting path.
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
We 2 took a shortcut through
The place of stones and bones.
I have some time to rhyme
Of a young woman who
May read this one day,
And, pondering on weathered old gravestones,
Say, “we are but clay”.
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.
A tall tree
Arrested me
As I
Passed by
The churchyard yesterday.
When I
Go away
The tree will stay.
And others will pass by.
And, perhaps, think as I.
When on my way
Through the churchyard today
I nearly fell,
I knew well
That one day,
There I will stay
K Morris - Poet 