Graveyard Scorton by Phil McNulty


Through the lapping trees and the sheep sodden fields

we clagged and clambered downhill

over bramble-thorned styles

to the suckling stream and the shallow, sloping,

arms-swing path to torn tarmac

and the sandstone edifice of the church at Scorton.

Where we sat on a hardwood bench

with the mown-grass air

and graveyard yew by the neat ranks of the dead

and listened for arguments, rivalry, contention

from the neat lawns, the stone, calvary-leaning, crosses,

the red and purple bereavement flowers.

There was none.

Just the silence of ghosts