Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Ruined Cemetery

Violets no longer grow in the shaded places
Here and there among the thick Victorian stones
And the more recently enterred. There are no traces
That there ever were violets there. And these old bones
Won't tell you much, even if you should ask them to,
They can't. Their mouths were closed too many years ago,
They slumber now beneath some thorny weeds and a few
Dried out bits of yellow grass. Nothing much can grow
In here now; they do not water, nor do they prune.
It's all a tangled mess of burr covered stems— long
Busy with the task of wearing down the graves. Soon
There will be nothing here to see but them. It's wrong
Perhaps, of me to care so much, my bones don't lay
Beneath rough weeds. But, part of me still knows: they may.

November Evening, Badon Hill 

Grey evening falls lightly upon the hill
grass. Trees, splayed against the half lit clouds, blow
thin leafless fingers back and forth below
a sky gone colourless. Breezes break the still
air, bringing dry dead leaves up and over
the grass to land in heaps with each other,
forming ruddy  piles that shift and spill
along the paths. Cold fog appears, low down
along the roots and lower branches, ground
level first, then curling high, bringing chill
air and damp mist to the growing darkness
and all around is touched with opalesce
until the world turns black upon the hill.