Black of yew, birds hide,
where poisonous berries, red,
drop on grey graves.

Silent stones, moss draped,
pale green and bleached by time.
The air aware, a latent air, expectant,
nothing stirs.

Below our bones, they sleep,
they cannot weep.
Souls haunt them yet,
expressed in quiet unspoken melody,
nature's own sweet breath.

Of dreams, regrets,
perhaps of happiness,
they weave new life
into the myths of man.

Ghosts haunt layman, priest,
inspire art and poetry, recreate,
from hidden sources,
knowledge obsolete.
_________________________

Before, I had this:-

Black of yew
where birds can hide
where poisonous berries, red,
drop on the graves of old and young,

silent stones
draped now with moss,
pale green and bleached by time

the air aware, a latent air,
expectant, nothing stirs,
below our bones, they sleep,
they cannot weep,

but souls can haunt them yet
expressed in this quiet melody
unspoken,
sung by nature's own sweet breath,
where full of dreams, regrets,
perhaps of happiness,
they weave new life into the myths
of man and beast,

who in return haunt layman,
priest
inspire to poetise, to recreate
from sources, knowledge obsolete,
new ways of seeing
as we grope through life
its wisdom, fears,
to understand the years.