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The magnificent yew shyly frowning in the corner, stands guard to the elderly stones
It was planted roughly a hundred years ago, and presides like a medieval throne.

Some snow it has seen for certain, and many summers with endless days
If only it could speak of history, then those stories would truly amaze.

Gathered amid grass below quietly, sound with an eerie sense of woe
Huddled tablets of stone inscribed in olden hand, soft wind around will blow.

And each is an attested memorial of a special person who was once held dear
While evident date on some creaking pillars, is not altogether clear.

Granite crosses stand tall reaching for the sky, while others they sink and lean
Dotted across this lonely plot that once had been field of verdant green.

By some stand urns full of flowers, gazing softly at names with listed age
The outer boundary of rusting iron rail, upon acting like a cage.

Though many stand shivering in silence, holding back the lonely hands
Whole generations of families, washed with the tide of sand.

My eyes upon a special plot, its austerity made me look and stare
The last of a line and no kin to weep, with solemnity cruel and bare.

Music had filtered through leaves of ancient yew, a dirge in blackness played
Other lost centuries will come and go, the branched splendour forever stayed.

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