CHURCHYARD

The sturdy tower with flag atop,

In your tracks it makes you stop.

Saint George's cross you do see there,

Fluttering proudly in the air.

The mighty Yew stands proud and tall,

It's evergreen its leaves don't fall.

It's been here for many years,

Seen many laughs and many tears.

Many graves both old and new,

Some looked after, but just a few.

Most overgrown and covered in moss,

We've lost their names, and that's our loss .

"Joan the relict of John Malone,"

I read her name, it's carved in stone.

She only lived to sixty three,

But she may outlive both you and me.

Small grassy mounds which no cross adorn,

These are the graves of children stillborn.

So different from our Polish friends,

Whose photo so many memories it lends.

A newly dug grave I do see there,

The soil piled up with lots of care.

Not long now and with sobs and sighs,

To someone we loved we'll say our goodbyes