Grave Yard Copyright © Sally Anne Adams 2011

A child’s ice cream in the sand,
a brooch with a broken clasp,
a biro which still works
with a strap line reading
‘insurance for the clergy’.
A toe bone in the moss
moved from its vault
and moved again
by the finder
to the corner
by the cedar
where the broken stones
are piled like unread books.
Finders are not keepers.
The dead are not sleepers.
Losers are weepers.