This ground heaves, lurchingly
uneven through its mulch of leaves,
tips us towards the tilting graves,
the shade of tall, stooped trees.
The stone sarcophagi are empty – burial
was below, in now unfathomable depths.
Toppled headstones sink slowly
in a green lawn where the nameless
are marked by darker green hollows
that tempt today’s visitors to lie down,
and a girl in a vintage print frock
carries a golden bowl — her cycle helmet,
its glinting curves reflecting miniature
monuments, tiny people, old light.