The Kirkyard

Eerie by night, Serene by day, A place of worship Some might say, The kirkyard is a strange place, Where people sit in open space, Even when masses are lunching there It's still very quiet in the open air. Eveything is so peaceful, Even the breeze That gentle wind blowing, Smoothly thru the trees. Over the years Graves are covered with moss Centuries of ageing And people grieving their loss. Many a grave has cracked Others bent or just plain broken For these people below us The great lord has spoken. The kirk stands proud, And the bells do chime It must be the hour to leave now It's soon to become witching time.