Bodies at rest in their coffins, flowers and flags at their heads under the branches of yew – five trees, old, in a circle – stride through, find yourself alone.
Looking across, more graves with old plaster flowers, alabaster angel, wings folded, names carved with tools, with rubbing. One tree, alone and on a rise, stands through the shadow lending a light – life shines on Jesus and Druid alike.
Black dog, loose-leashed with her nose in the leaves there, the leaves of the yew. Nobody bothers you here, the school bus rattles by on its way.