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.
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