The Churchyard

The Churchyard Dark and brooding yew trees stand In silence, watching those who come To view this hallowed, ill-kept land, Feared by most, still loved by some. Headstones worn, unkempt, askew, So tired from years of gross neglect. Names forgotten, except the new, That stand in corners, proud, erect. To where did all the souls depart Who once placed flowers newly grown? No sign of guilt or broken heart Of wives and mothers left alone. Who now cares for those long gone From this our world and what it means? Should I not go where once they shone To tend the ground and fix the seams? If I should take the time to care For those who left in years gone by, Perhaps one day we’ll meet and share Our different lives, ‘neath summers sky.