The wind picks up from the Mersey and races dog legged

and fancy free past sun bleached stones

and weathered time bitten

faces of the angels staring, unblinking and without humour

against the elements, and yet they feel remorse

for the quiet and solitude offered

amongst the grave stones.

 

The graveyard is unnatural in the lowering

of the September Sun, and the marking of a season,

unnerving as the youthful, over colour filled flowers

placed in the glass bubble shell wave with less vigour