8. Life ground down, reborn

Seasons, senses & self

The last breath escapes. Flesh goes up in smoke; bones are ground down. Scattered ash under yew tree is covered with fallen leaves. Bones deeper down, still whole, are entangled with roots. A headstone points to the sky.

This grave acre where spire’s shadow falls is teeming with life. Worms work; birds perch to peck berries; brambles abound. Where a commodore sleeps forever, Red Admiral caterpillars crawl over sun-soaked nettles – nettles later laid low by the scythe. Teasels and thistles stand tall.

A father with baby in sling watches a toddler lay rows of daisies on Granny’s grave.

Seasons, senses & self 8/365:
Nudging you to... write? reflect? walk? notice? flow?

In his poem Church Going, Philip Larkin (an atheist who enjoyed visiting empty churches) pictures a future where all churches are disused, and wonders what will happen to the buildings. He concludes that stone ruins in churchyards will still hold a fascination:

For someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, is proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.