There are some who come here for hours,
their afternoons lost in the roses, the lilies,
all shades of anonymous flowers. Whilst
others only stop, be it ten, fifteen, thirty,
their trainers turned dirty from the dew and the damp
as they tramp across grass, across grave
to their own little acre of peace.
Silent spectators, they stand and they shiver,
minds too busy to hear the birdsong that quivers
on spring’s quick-footed breeze,
or to follow the paths that wind through the trees,
where bluebells silently chime.
Instead they lay litter — sacred litter, sparkling like glitter,
as far as the eye can see. A disparate sea
of plastic, petal, membrane, metal,
of framed pictures here, teddy bears there,
a porcelain Madonna that seems not to care
as those lilies grow withered and rotten
beside those humble old words of mourning,
still legible there this fine April morning,
of God bless you, we miss you, gone not forgotten.