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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
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,
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.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
In process! Dan's graveyard at Andover inspired this, we went there together. Its not finished is it?
Editing stage: 


there is a sadness interwoven through this poem ...

Its lovely to read you again ...

Hope you are having a lovely christmas
And you are well

Much love JC xox

("Always and Forever") - (Never lose a holy curiosity.-Albert Einstein)

maybe a spiritual forecast Ann
I used to visit graveyards
Mount Pleasant in Toronto by Rosedale was my favourite
My fathers mothers people were buried in there
Red heads from Seabright Ontario

I would love the angels and cherubs and ponder the
dead below and where they go and thought of the
afterlife from this simple mortal place
Like a garden somewhere
like the gods and godesses mix of the times before
when man and god mixed for a time and become
the angels

terrific poem Ann

Specially when they mixed red heads with the angels I wonder what colour their hair is, I had better ask Princess Martha Louise, she has an angel school here in Norway! Fancy that.

The others used to say, don't let Ann see there's a graveyard there; perhaps in Venice or anywhere as every place has something interesting to be seen and tell. Mexico had the brightest colours, painting them each year, pink cherubs on a red and gold background-wow they were something.

Perhaps one should write a will and say paint such-and-such on my tomb!!!! I wonder what?

Norway has carved wooden ones and soap stone acanthus leaves that are quite wonderful, bold designs. GB has so many different ones, in Devon the slate beautifully carved calligraphy and angels; in Scotland where there is sandstone pink-red ones worn by the wind. Oh now you have set my mind to writing a poem about graves, Steven. :)

I tend to look at them not thinking so much about who is there, but as a work of art, an expression of something...... Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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