Musing In Ilkley Cemetery No more on the hill the Middleton clan, now resting apart in municipal plot. He to the left with the Romans and Catholics, she to the right among Protestant stock. He passes his time among sisters and Irish, she spends her days with the cream of the mill. And were they to rise, cross over the pathway, they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill. Walking once more, hands crossed behind me, the A plots, the B plots and Cs tucked behind reading the stones, somber and solid, eaten by moss and losing their shine. Now heres a baby resting with mother, daffodils, and brambles over their head. Laying untended, their family departed, gone safe to the Lord the legend there says. A squirrel picks crisps from littered green packet, vinegar, bites and claws at its tongue. Skirting the line of war fallen heroes, into conformists I gladly move on. Past teachers and doctors, inventors and shepherds, he was a pal of George Bernard Shaw, her flag she raised with Garbaldi, his soul he saved buildings homes for the poor. At last, I complete my ambling circuit, back once again beside Middleton sun. Surely despite religious contention, husband and wife might lay there as one.
Posted on: Thu, 20 Mar 2014 00:21:11 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015