Brompton Cemetery
A place of sorrow that brings such comfort,
One of death yet cherished by the living,
The lines of tombs and ancient burials mean naught,
Compared to the hidden glories beneath the covering,
Tree of stately age and unerring beauty,
They're monuments stronger than man's folly,
Noble, ignorant of greed or vanity,
Pillars of strength and modesty.
The multitude of fragrant flowers,
Nature's opposite, fickle, lasting but hours,
Yet with childish innocence they persevere,
Providing a ray of delight to those near.
Dismiss not those proud, holy stones,
Placed by man with a plethora of moans,
The living's contribution to the dead,
In truth solace to those whose tears still shed,
Yet emotions these inscriptions can evoke,
Lasting memories of what a lover spoke,
A parent's pain filled croak,
A friend's sobbing, lamentable verse,
Or that of a sibling, through misery, stiff lipped and terse.
yet all these words were engraved with affection pure,
Symbols of humanity and what is more,
This place of bones and rotted flesh,
Cause of foreboding, fear and stress,
Was created and sustained by sheer love,
A force purer than the white plume of the dove.
And what of the Palladian portico,
As well as that majestic dome,
Protecting the intricate catacombs down below
Where the freed spirits roam?
The product of fine masonry, an honour to behold,
A once flaming art, now gone cold.
Under a particular arch, marks my spot
Of meditation and much thought.
Though this place of mine was not bought,
'Tis my one and only treasure,
Not of gold or silver fraught,
But fills me with the truest pleasure.
Copyright © Phil Lator | Year Posted 2017
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