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Tynecot : Gods Acre

Tynecot. God's acre.

   Here..
   A quiet churchyard on the Kentish Weald
   Finches flit from holly to yew
   Shafts of gold pierce the morning sky
   Calm is the air, serene is the view.

   There..
   Silence.
   No lark's sweet song
   Gravestones stand shoulder to shoulder
   In perfect lines of shining white.

   Here..
   Ivy cloaks the forgotten tombs
   Aged and weathered, no order in death,
   Most tinted with lichens yet peaceful, at rest,
   They welcome the warmth of summers first breath.

   There..
   Manicured lawns disappearing from sight
   A carpet to cover the fallen below
   Over whom I now walk at a death's march pace,
   Most marked with a name that they just didn't know.

   Here..
   Silence.
   The finches have flown
   The departed are lying at rest,
   All souls together, both here and there

Copyright © Tim Riding

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