Sitting Among the Gravestones in the Churchyard of St. Andrews in Castle Combe

The ivy grows so quickly across the crumbling gravestones
only the angels can see it.
So my eye follows
the dance of the bees among the elderflower.
Mortal and immortal each marking the time in our own way.

This stone bears her name
now illegible from wind and rain.
So my finger traces what it can
slowly through lichen and moss.
A prayer of remembrance lovingly etched.
The living seeking communion
with the dead.