Churchyard Child

I love to visit the church; to wander in the graveyard… Flitting fleet-footed amongst the copse of corpses, The grey stone groves of death – I love those humble long-suffering tombstones, They rear their bleak blackened heads towards the eternal sky And remind me of the redeeming comfort of oblivion I find it soothing, to wander in their company, to reach out – And lay a soft white hand upon their immortal chill Each footstep of mine cushioned in bone-rich moss, Each breath adorning the air with gauzy veils of fog; I love too, the churchyard chorus, of robin’s peep And raven’s haunting harmony And the audible acrimony of ghosts, sitting amidst the trees, Watching me with curiosity… I love to consort with them, the silent silver spirits here, Those who drift, lachrymose, beneath boughs bedecked with blossom With the pretty pink buds of May They seem to embrace me as I wander, seem to hold my hand, And their cool breath upon the nape of my neck comforts… Soothes away the stresses and strains of this insufferable mortal life They understand my pain you see – for they have seen it all before, They learnt life’s cruelest lessons and took them to the grave, Where they pondered and reflected upon all the reasons why… Now their worm-eaten wisdom drenches the soil underfoot, And hangs from the stones themselves in silver trails of starlight Waiting for me to pluck them like cherries, To devour the flesh of their knowledge, And then swallow the kernel of cunning consolation the dead have left – The ghosts have left – for me… And so you see, I hold the graveyard dear, and love to sit there Among the wakeful dead, my feet cushioned by corpse hands My heart cradled in a nest of ghostly fists… Churchyard child I am, at home among the amorphous, And sometimes it seems to me that when life becomes too much to bear, And poisons my heart with dread, Then I can come to the graveyard – and find my cold eternal bed