The Graveyard Closure
The village church upon the hill
Has had its fill
Of bodies under slabs so still.
A thousand years the tower has stood,
Originally was made of wood,
Interment now has gone for good.
Maintenance has passed to the Borough,
Who the vicar hopes will be as thorough
As the Parish was year after year.
We all find closure in our lives
When burying husbands or our wives,
So what a shock and how disruptive -
There’s no more ground to put them in!
(One thinks about a wheelie bin,
But that of course would be a sin).
Farms were sold around the village
To city firms who took advantage
Building houses, and no more tillage.
Five thousand live in this domain
And have put the village under strain,
Which will never be the same again.
In the monthly Parish magazine
The vicar, kind and wise, is keen
To assuage our fears with a new scheme:
Two other Parishes near by
Have a hundred years in which to lie
Our loved ones who will be close by.
And though our church upon the hill
Has never had an overspill
Of those who come to pray, we visit still.
November 2011.
Copyright by D. J. Brennan, Derbyshire
