Churchyard Hymn Copyright © Richard Whiting 2010

Timeless, by the church doors
A photograph under the lych-gate
Throwing confetti like laughter
We dream in the hot sun.
I haven’t seen this village,
Breathed its name
In a quarter of a century’s
Gatherings of leaf-mould.
The barley fields whisper
As they dance to the birdsong
Carried on the breeze
From the ancient oaks.

Here it was, he lit the first joint
Grew too accustomed,
Rolled up a sleeve
And let in the dragon.
Here, boasted of manhood
Having scored for the first time;
Here, that he never learnt
To make love.

There, there in that squat,
Abandoned, dog dead at his side
A final hit,
A grating breath
Lights out. Party over.

His name escapes me;
Then glancing around the graves
I see the simple stone
Named and dated
Then abandoned.
Weeds choking the mound
Like heroine in twisted veins.

No-one leaves flowers here
Or pauses to remember.
I wonder if his parents
Remember him, ask questions
Of themselves in wintry moments
Of self-doubt?

The grave says no, no, no
Neglect his final hymn.

The hall, where they did not hold his wake
Is alive with disco lights.
The thought of his grave
Fades with the first drink
And we all dance,
And smile and laugh.
‘To their future!’ May they be honoured by children
Who will honour them.

The glitter-ball slides brightly
Across a dancing couple
Like moonlight over
A forgotten grave.