Graveyards fascinate me. This morning I meandered through the grounds of Hampstead Parish church. I was awestruck by nature's sublime invasion of such a space. The battle between man and time is a futile one.
The aged stones, garnished in moss and lichen all tell similar stories of some: "Selfless mother, beloved son, adored husband," whose ashes are interred beneath a crumbling sarcophagus. The simplest epithets are the ones that move me most. There are forgotten stones on the periphery that serve as shelter for a roaming vagrant who has the decency to piss in a bottle and not the sacred turf upon which he sleeps. He shares his bed with many a forgotten soul.
The yew tree offers its sinewy boughs to the winter sun and the din of traffic fades into a distant hum. Stillness reigns and I pretend to be invisible. M x
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