Visit

it’s the first frost of the winter

the cemetery silent

carpeted in red orange brown and gold 

leaf fall that makes a magical rustle 

in this crisp chill sunshine

no-one to sweep them into neat piles,

my ear picks out a sound in the thin air

a metallic clink scrape scratching

and I see the diligent lone workman

re-pointing the russet stones

of the chapel of rest,

ashamedly it’s been eleven years

the sudden realisation dawns

I don’t know where you are

all I remember is a corner

and the path now hidden

under autumn’s demise,

all the headstones face away

from the chapel

the intention to face the sunrise

already throwing long shadows

behind four ancient yews,

I immerse myself in the names

a roll call of my childhood

a school register of familiarity

unhelpfully called in random fashion

mothers fathers grandparents like my own

asleep three decades or more

and on a corner, now familiar

with your back to me

finally there you are!

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020