Yew

St Oswald's church is huddled in the vale of Grasmere. Yew trees along avenues relinguish cones between the granite tombs in shadows decked, their muted roots reseed as tiny trailing fingers feel for loam with olive tips that dip through waves of sage. He planted seven trees where shadows grow beneath the marbled slabs, sad stones bewail the loss of fragile flesh; but tendrils drill through clay and claw towards the gilted sun. The summer breeze appears to animate the listless leaves that twist like mournful hands. Above a steeple's cross; below the earth where darkly Hecate conspires rebirth.