Solace to roam amongst the stones
with faded sentiments of love
or some simple record of each span spent,
and weighing whether ageing cups
hidden here in hardened soil
if not to the brim
held a while suffice to sip
til partly drunk on life's deep draught
and weren't forever dry.
Or worse perhaps, if broken shards
once bright and whole
now scattered by a careless hand
lie beneath the gate-side Yew,
mislaid in spreading nettle,
and long since lost to all.
Yes, slight comfort in soft imagined sighs
and whispers from the stretching past,
pressing ears to catch reproach
for what was lost by all within
though lives on yet
in fleeting gasps
by fools above
with fragile grails,
but time enough to drink.