High up above the nestling town
the sleeping watchers lie
their sleep untroubled now at last
their dreaming hearts at ease
Atop their hill they wander
at times in starlight gleaming
the silent sentinels of night
love of the country once they tilled
calls their souls to linger still
Yet on a foggy morning
before the sun appears
their shadows wafting over grass
drifting among the stones they pass
and hover 'round the bushes
A mortal feels intrusive here
the air is thick with spirits
of young and old, of tales untold
of secrets, hopes and wishes
I wander there alone, yet not
my footfall soft I wend my way
they brush against my face and
hands, a shiver through me sending
when through the fog fist light appears
the world anew creating
I gaze in wonder at the might of all that is
and share the glory of the dawn
with these new friends on yonder hill
who slip to rest again
but still accept me for a little while
in their sweet dream partaking.
Beautiful, beautiful photos! Is this an original poem? I loved it--I kept guessing who the author might be.
ReplyDeleteA great post. I do like old country graveyards. Your photos are so beautiful for this lovely spot of rest in the morning mist. Your poetic words are peaceful like a soft hand stretching out, you are all right, sleep...sleep
ReplyDeleteWonderful poem. In Ireland, where I live, there are many graveyards surrounded by walls and often inside is the ruin of a church, crumbled to a pile of stones. That's from when the English banned the Catholic faith and demolished their churches. They are strange, eerie places.
ReplyDeleteGorgeous photographs too.
Dear Rose, welcome, and you can stop guessing, I and I alone am responsible for what is on my blog.
ReplyDeleteTitania, this graveyard was in Omeo, In the foothills of the Vic. alps. A place very dear to my heart although I know not why.
Dear BT, glad you dropped in, it never ceases to amaze me what has been destroyed over millenia in the name of religion but so often for carnal lust (Henry VIII) and economic greed. The desecration and or destruction of churches and abbey in the British isles all went to fill the state coffers with the churches wealth. To date nothing seems to have changed.
I love the ruins and remains none the less.
This is so lovely.. you are a true artist, Arija.. I am in awe!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this very much... I wanted to absorb it all...
I love cemeteries and these pictures are so fantastic. That soft, misty look is so peaceful and your poem is lovely too.
ReplyDeleteGwen, as I read between the lines, I detect something unsettlig, always a warm and willling shoulder here.
ReplyDeleteThanks you for homing into my feelings... Hugs and love.
Manuela, thanks for visiting, yes there is something very special about cemeteries.
How did I miss this post?! Beautiful and poignant poem. I love peaceful old graveyards and have seen many of them in the last few years as I was researching my ancestry. Wonderful photos here...your family burial grounds perhaps?
ReplyDeleteThanks for bringing my absence to my attention. I really did enjoy this post. How did you know I would? And no, I wasn't giving you the cold shoulder! Teehee!
Thanks for droppin in Willow, I miss you when you stay away.
ReplyDeleteOh Arija...the photos and your words truly capture how I feel about cemeteries. I have recently visited one in Martha's Vineyard during early morning, while everyone was still asleep. I walked there for over two hours, reading the headstones, feeling the energy, wondering about those lives, capturing images both with my camera and my heart. Your words say everything.
ReplyDelete