All Saints Church Mackworth

From the everyday hubbub I have often fled to share the stillness enjoyed by the dead. Over chimes that mark the quarter and the hour noisy Crows play hide and seek around the tower. Cross beneath the arch and through the gate to those here bearing witness to our fate. Marked by gently listing weathered stone they lie here all together, all alone. Through village history I slowly pass borne on the ebb and flow of unmown grass. Sarah Smith, taken in eighteen thirty-one her past just twelve years old, her future gone. Another Sarah, Eames, near the main porch, each facet of her tomb topped by a torch. In a corner by the hedge with beard of moss a solitary ornate Celtic cross. Reverend Ogle, keeper once of Church and grounds now waiting for the final trumpet's sound. Another cross, lain flat with hole for flowers rests darkly in the shadow of the tower. Wind and weather from it's face the name long taken unknown, but unto God is unforsaken. Inside the Church in amber candleglow stand the Alabaster Angels- and they know. Respectfully I pick my way back to the gate till next time, and eternity, they wait. One last glance back, then time to move along, All Saints calls out the hour the Crows are gone