Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Fog in an Old Country Graveyard

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.


  1. Beautiful, beautiful photos! Is this an original poem? I loved it--I kept guessing who the author might be.

  2. A 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

  3. Wonderful 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.

    Gorgeous photographs too.

  4. Dear Rose, welcome, and you can stop guessing, I and I alone am responsible for what is on my blog.

    Titania, 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.

  5. This is so lovely.. you are a true artist, Arija.. I am in awe!!!!!!!

    I enjoyed this very much... I wanted to absorb it all...

  6. I love cemeteries and these pictures are so fantastic. That soft, misty look is so peaceful and your poem is lovely too.

  7. Gwen, as I read between the lines, I detect something unsettlig, always a warm and willling shoulder here.
    Thanks you for homing into my feelings... Hugs and love.

    Manuela, thanks for visiting, yes there is something very special about cemeteries.

  8. 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?

    Thanks 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!

  9. Thanks for droppin in Willow, I miss you when you stay away.

  10. Oh 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.


Blog Widget by LinkWithin