A winter’s day
And already the sun is low on the horizon
A chill creeps through the air
As the light sinks.
The graveyard settles into shadow
At my feet lie the dead.
Buried beneath the cold clods
Stones at their heads that read
Of poetic loss and grief at their passing.
“Beloved son”, “Loving mother,”
“Sacred to the memory.”
The once living
Now lie inanimate,
Six feet under.
Waiting: for what?
For eternity, for heaven or for hell?
Certainly, their release from this life passed,
Is there death, new life, resurrection?
For this is a Christian place.
As I turn to go,
I retrieve a discarded rose,
White and innocent in the dewy grass
And I place it on the moss-covered wall
Between the sacred land and the unconsecrated.
Is it for me to sympathise in death or
To celebrate of the life to come?
We shall all find out in time.
Words and photo copyright to Englepip©