Unheavenly cold wept from bare trees;
silent gravestones loomed over the graves;
frozen points hung like, undrying tears on wood,
crystals of grief left in memoriam above the earth.
No resurrecting hand here will force the frost apart
to rise again from the black crumbs of eternity:
grass is too wizened a grey, the soil too hard
for any ghost to be relinquished into freezing rain
falling dark and permanent on its tilting slab.
The first of the year, a whimsy, but gothic. A friend posted an image of a Glasgow graveyard with the caption - ‘Could be the start of a Hammer Horror film’. I offered a poem to suit. Just for the Hell of it…
silent gravestones loomed over the graves;
frozen points hung like, undrying tears on wood,
crystals of grief left in memoriam above the earth.
No resurrecting hand here will force the frost apart
to rise again from the black crumbs of eternity:
grass is too wizened a grey, the soil too hard
for any ghost to be relinquished into freezing rain
falling dark and permanent on its tilting slab.
© BH, 2021
The first of the year, a whimsy, but gothic. A friend posted an image of a Glasgow graveyard with the caption - ‘Could be the start of a Hammer Horror film’. I offered a poem to suit. Just for the Hell of it…
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