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HEADSTONES
This may sound rather morbid,
but a fun thing to go and do,
Is to wander round an old cemetery
there all the headstones to view.
The British Isles in a good place
to spend some precious time,
Searching through the old yew trees,
hearing the wet wind whine.
Carefully lifting moss and the creeping
ivy off the half buried crumbling stone,
Find who’s body is lying sleeping there,
maybe only dust left of his skin and bone.
Some sad tales can be told on those stones
so cold, alone, now forgotten and bleak,
Burying maybe two wives and many a child
before death of the partner at last does seek.
Look at the dates on those sunken headstones,
does anyone know them or really, truly care?
I do, for my ancestors came from this place
The remains of my loved ones are buried there.
Family names three hundred years or more
are waiting for me to seek them and find,
There is no one in this old graveyard unloved
and unkempt that I want to be left behind.
Kneeling on wet sod with rain washing
my flowing tears of sweet joy away,
I find a family grave with six names there,
What happiness there’ll be in heaven to day.
Go to some old overgrown graveyard,
spend an hour under the sun or rain,
Find those lost who have been waiting
and relieve them of their sin’s pain.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson October 11, 2002