All Saints' Church, 2018

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