Resting Place. – Tim Veater
Resting Place. – Tim Veater
I know this is not a poetry site, so I hope you will forgive me for posting this
one, written a few years ago in a nearby Cornish churchyard. It attempts to
contrast the transitory nature of our lives with the issues that concern us – a
philosophical anti-dote to what we discover here.
“Resting Place” by Tim Veater.
I sat amidst the serried ranks of grey
Flecked granite polished stone
Smooth shaped and etched in black
Recording names and dates and epitaphs
Of those who didn’t make it through the night.
Hard those beds where now they sleep,
All facing east, towards in faith, a grand awakening.
A faint reflection of long faded years,
Obscured by unlettered, lichened time.
Human obsessions buried deep.
Names that ring bells and awaken misted memories,
When young and vibrant in hope,
They snatched landscaped snippets here and there,
Emotions sea-gulling in their wake
Some stapled to our memory.
Oft appears the symbol of the cross
Or something more elaborate
But mostly, just blank stone or slate
Upon which, inscribed in just a few unleaded words
We view a distillate evaporate.
Where partners separated, catch up,
And grief itself is cured.
And all the love and loss,
The freezing cold and scalding heat,
Is united in a sentiment of love and peace.
Pauper anonymous, on timber cross,
Lies unconcerned by fate or etiquette,
Adjacent to a Lady You Know, Who,
Speaking beyond the grave says not goodnight
But in some fairer clime, bids us good morning.
Meanwhile, a large black sexton crow
Waddles unperturbed amidst the sward
And swallows dart, like spirits,
Betwixt, between, the never-fading yew
On eternal care-free wings, a-twittering.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
ReplyDeleteBY THOMAS GRAY (1751)
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.