and under the arch of the old Norman church,
tombs and fir trees adorned with white
on this bitter early February morning.
A magpie creates a transient flurry
as the sun paints diamonds into the snow
perhaps watched by those reposing below.
There's not a living soul visible
as I study the inscriptions:
some have been weathered away
and a cross has fallen like a tree,
no flowers here, it lies quite forgot.
I think of all those who've walked through such snow,
the world such a different place long ago.