Alexandra Cemetery

L.I. To use the model of ‘The Old Alley’ to write descriptively about a place.

Twisted gates creak,

Fog entwines around

Cracking stone graves.

Gnarled, squatting pine trees

Cast shadows on the ground

They dance and lengthen

As the sun descends the deep blue sky,

Now streaked with gold.

Thin, wispy clouds

Obscure the crescent moon

Stars twinkle cheerfully,

Spirits of the corpses residing here

Until their bones rot away to nothing.

Wind moans,

A child calling to the deceased.

Weeds and moss suffocate the dirty stone,

And so, consequently, slabs of the gravestones

Separate themselves,

And roll down the shallow hill.

Cobwebs strangle the carved stone angels,

Blocking epitaphs from sight.

Decaying leaves carpet the unmowed grass

Leaving a floor of decomposition to walk on.

Over the rotting fences,

You will find fields filled with cattle,

And a  highway roaring with cars

Unaffected by the death and mourning

That calls this cemetery home.

Abundant silence fills my ears

This is not a happy place.

I crouch by a checker-patterned grave,

Sweeping dust from the headstone.

I hope the dead appreciate that

There’s plenty more to clean.

By Amy