Cast iron clouds call their brushed allegiance to the age-clad masonry.
Whilst the mangled percussion of the infants' school bickers
with the soft tones of the older boys' band.
Still their sound is drowned by the whistling wind,
carrying parents' pleas that it's time to leave,
as the small groups crawl through the churchyard.
In a mossy corner, the window-man clatters,
with his brushes and buckets at the side of the oak shaded vicarage.
A scarf slides from an old man's neck
whilst he motionlessly salutes the monument;
his medals are dull in the lacklustre light.
But for all that's here, there's one thing not,
where I sit by this silent 'here lies' spot.