There is a drowsy absence of fear in graveyards that have been mellowed with Time, lichen, and the slippages and stirrings of the earth itself. 

In this particular graveyard in a small Oxfordshire village, there were so many tales that had come to their natural conclusion here. All the poetry, the aspirations of lives lived – so evident in the names, in the pet names, in the snatches of engraved poetry – all come finally…to rest. How to communicate this? 

It was a snail trailing its sparkling trace irreverently, casually, across the markers of the dead, that caught the poetry in its oblivious shell. The two children running impulsively and undirected across this place of departure added the base note to the melody.

 

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