Autumn Churchyard

Old oaks entwine about the stones,
That name the peaceful resting dead;
Thy fibres trace the dreamless head,
Thy roots are clasp'd about the bones.

The seasons make trees bare again,
And brings the lambs into the flock;
And in thy life—a living clock—
Tics out the little lives of men.

And standing in this sacred spot,
And thinking of the buried dead;
And how that I will rest my head,
Right here one day inside my plot.

Quiet they rest and voices still'd,
They drank dregs in a bitter cup;
They lie with faces pointing up,
My corpse also will grow so chill'd.

Just look about this burying ground,
So many lying in requiem;
Lying without a single dream,
This turf is swollen and is mound.

The only life about the place,
Comes from the Church just thro' that gate;
Bells ring for worship often late,
And die once more for days of space.

Here in my heaving heart I find,
Some solace in the gloomy sight;
Nature around me takes to flight,
And God I have some peace of mind.

~Timothy~

© Timothy 12 October, 2012