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.


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