Concerning the Remote Churchyard
Does a mountain begin or end
where it touches the sky?
Can the kite leave ripples when it flies,
like a lazy hand stroking water?
Do the spirits of lost lovers
meet under the yew trees?
Did the land tremble and bleed
when cut for the first time?
Could it feel the placing of stone,
on stone, on stone?
Did it hear the voices of the masons
laugh and swear through another day?
***
The land holds stories,
that it keeps to itself.
***
So too, inside the church,
are secrets untold
of prayers and promises.
Here the faithful met the faithless,
ordering their world in ritual,
fearing the consequences.
They worked the land with songs,
sung in an ancient language
Others gave orders, briskly spoken,
in the language of another.
They planted the hedgerows
with knowledge of possession.
Here is mine, there is yours.
They made order out of hillside.
They tidied streams.
Their livestock nodded.
Nature nodded back
with an arsenal of
storm, snowdrifts, and draught.
Nature’s trump cards.
***
A few memories, in stone,
for souls departed from bodies
whose wealth
secured an indoor spot.
18c. Christopher wanted
either his own grave
or to be near Blanch
His half blank stone
waits and weeps for her.
***
Outside are markers
of ends and beginnings.
To the North, upright shiny sentinels,
tended for the remembered.
The much loved and sorely missed,
the born sleeping
and the taken too soon.
To the East and South tipsy stones
for the forgotten and unreachable.
Ivy-clad and lichen-kissed,
overcome with May’s abundance
and ivy’s ambition.
***
And where lie the masons,
the goodwives,
the hedge layer and the priest?
Too deep, too forgotten,
but present because
the question is asked.
All laid out here (stone or not)
to face the East
and their judgement day.
Here lies a wife beater.
Here lies a brave woman.
Here lies a drunk.
Here lies a hero.
***
At the end,
did their souls fly up
to where the Skirrid
touches the sky?
Did they pass the kites,
on their way?
Did they wave a last goodbye,
rippling the air
like a hand stroking water?
Did they remember being
young lovers, under the Yew trees?
*****
© Gaynor Kavanagh