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