The drops from swollen clouds conspire to form
a tremulous and fearsome storm of rain;
like small glass stones, converging in a swarm
of rock salt – spiteful, jagged in their strain.
And in that churchyard – ancient, veiled from sun,
I trudge the rows and glance at all the dates,
in desperate search to find the the oldest one,
unsettled by the wind-blown, clanking gates.
My mind predicts a sight of what’s below,
a flashing horror: skull, and crooked teeth –
the flowers rot amongst the melting snow,
and long to feed upon the bones beneath.
I find the grave – its stone is loose and bent,
and see a shifting in the sediment. ∎
Words by Alexander Haveron-Jones. Artwork by Sophie Kuang.