The Churchyard

I love the churchyard.

Many find it a place of fear,

Where TV nightmares come to life.

But it’s a different place to me,

As I walk through,

on route to elsewhere.

I hear the rustle of

real angel wings

As they guard the gateways

Letting the stone angels

sleep on.

It’s a place where the best

fairy tale

Sort of magic is found

With apple blossom

snowing down

And birdsong in

dapple sun drenched air.

Even in the night I see beauty

On the moonlit graves

Of the sleeping saved,

Waiting for the last alleluia

When those gateway sentinels

Of the graveyard

Will have finished

their service of love.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s