The church yard

The church yard

could be measured in souls,

not metres;

lives that trod this world -

temporary footprints

in the light snow of time.

Yet these are but the bones

of lives whose souls

have travelled on.

Here mausoleums and sepulchers

loose their leaded scripts

like money spent

at a fairground

or wasted on a bet.

And history fades

as the accolades

become one

with the fallen leaves

of an already forgotten

autumn.

Mini-monoliths

of marble and stone,

stand lonely and silent

in the solitude of their remembrances.