We talk about the serenity of cemeteries,
crooked headstones lean higgledy-piggledy
on a hilltop along Mansfield Road, lull
about the afterlife:
our descent into Earth
if burial is what we decide.
Sunbeam light streams, hitting headstones
licked by lichen-muted green.
stretches frayed stalk-like fingers over graves;
sweeping stone protectively.
We note: life still thrives here
above bones and worms and loss.
Our walking boots sink into soft moss
as we stroll through the serenity of the cemetery,
its crooked headstones, higgledy-piggledy
on a hilltop over Mansfield Road.
If burial is what we decide
our concerns about the afterlife,
descent into Earth, are lulled a little
dulled down a little
by the life that’s thriving here:
ivy, cherry blossom, a ladybird snug
in a graffiti-smudged lady statue’s lughole,
all above bones and souls and loss.
And on a headstone,
we spot the epitaph