the churchyard, st. enedoc.

I’ve never felt easy in graveyards.
But I’ve never sat here before.
Here I feel uncomfortable ease,
A peace (despite tourists laughing by).
When they cease, all is silent,
And I can pause to take in my views.

The names on headstones,
With fond verses underneath,
All return my stares while
I gaze in awe at Brae,
the guardian, jealously protecting
the souls in the yard.

The church – a Cornish curio,
Still points its crooked finger skywards,
As if summoning angels above.
And maybe it does,
For the long grass whispers and
The tide plays out ethereal rhythms.

This is public, but private.
Secluded, yet thronged with guests.
And they’re not tourists here.
They are guests, paying respects,
And almost all visit a man named JB,
Who still speaks through this landscape.