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
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