All Saints' Church, 2018
by Erin Coppin
by Erin Coppin
All Saints’ Church, 2018
“My grandparents are buried here,” says John
the farmer as we tidy up the garden of remembrance
as undertaken by the faithful twice a year.
He waves towards a corner of god’s acre,
well-tended and serene. “And my parents,”
with another wave. “And I’ll be buried here
with Jean. Who knows? Perhaps one day my son
and Jacob and the twins.” The twins are not yet five.
The trees above us hush. We still to watch the sycamore
drop helicopter seedpods to the ground
to one day try to settle in and sprout.
I pocket polished conkers for the kids.
My own ancestors’ graves are strewn across the
globe, a scattering of ashes, dust and stones. This,
I’m told, is how the living populate the earth:
with far-flung families, room to grow,
not shaded by the parent tree. I visited
my grandma’s grave exactly once. Above
me now the old rooks’ nests are sketched
in stirring branches. I glimpse what I’ve
been missing, turn away.
originally published in Spelt Magazine, October 2022