The Churchyard
Long grey stone around the Church
festooned with ivy
and marked with lichen.
Marking its perimeter.
Long lines of ancient yews
closing it off from our world.
The Church stark, forbidding.
Its Norman tower against the sky
but abandoned bereft of worship.
Down in the Churchyard
the graves are old and scattered
and all round them grow
sweet forget-me-nots
tiny, so blue and shy
so like the sweet souls
that have gone before
but still they are in our hearts
I wander, blindly seeking
where does she rest?
There is her grave
Oh my love
Why did you go?
There are more blue flowers of remembrance here
You are always in my heart
and I’ll forget you not.
Copyright © Brian Terry | Year Posted 2013
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