![]() I have been working on some poems recently as a kind of limbering exercise before I get back to the book I am avoiding writing! A bit rough and ready but here it is - not only T. Gray got to chill his backside in a churchyard in contemplation of greater things. Made me wonder, in a electronic age, when all things are filed in the cumulus nimbus - will we all end with the press of the delete button! Winter Churchyard They buried kings of little kingdoms here once, And then centuries of peasants, Yeoman, all countryfolk, Made equal in the rotting clay, Until the rising of the common word, Brought on weathered purple stone The single word biographies of Curate, wife, child and parishioner Of Jacob, Bessy, Seth and James Given a temporary glimpse of immortality. Such as this might have lingered in the thoughts Of the unexpected rows of airmen, Who fell from the clouds to lie, In rows of white cross uniforms, Still on duty, still on parade, By the tumbling wall. I sat upon the memorial bench Watching the light of the long-shadowed Winter afternoon, As it sparkled on the frosted grass, And played upon the old church wall, Against the face of the curious knight above the door, Whose rusty sword, blunt with age, Is no guardian of truth or desire, Or that which should remain.
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Psychologist
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