Camberwell Old Cemetery

Will Hatchett

They cannot harm us, they are scattered

Beneath oak and sycamore. Littered stones

Express a vague hope for the interred

Ash trees are whispering through their bones

What on earth must they think of me

The curious dog-walkers who pass by

As I observe the leaves’ shifting filigree

Lying flat on my back, watching the sky?

I could watch the trees’ liquid skin for hours

And study each miniature vignette

Of bent mourners with their shop flowers

Some are not forgotten – at least not yet

We hope that someone will do the same for us

Through hawthorns, the scarlet flash of a bus