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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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