Here, on a late November afternoon
where dusk lowers over reedbeds,
rooks cry from evening’s branches;
light radiates from this ancient church
that stands for times beyond our memory,
generations that tilled these fields and
whose names now decorate stones in
this graveyard, entered through a
lychgate of wood on hollowed
stone where holy water
guarded against the plague.
Once, the records say
a thriving community
grew grain and raised sheep
upon the surrounding hills
until dread diseased days
came, driving populace away
leaving this stone sanctuary
set away, a world of its own
amid now stripped fields.
Only few now come on Sunday
to pray and enter a world within
mingling past and present; knight’s
tombs and stained glass windows
of squire’s sons, loving their country
to death on foreign lands remembered.
During the pandemic
dwindling of this flock;
a few older parishioners;
lay reader spoken evensong;
November's darkness descends.
As I take my seat
sunset red through west window
illuminating silver cross on altar.
Revealing light colours
rising dust from stone floor.
This earth from which I come,
substance of which I am
all that is made.
Here where all times become one
words from past centuries
invoke ancestral memory
like a light breeze gently
shaking certainties.
Before, I was sure
that my life prospered;
now, shall I find peace
in mystery of unburning fire?
© Phil Kemp 2024