When the dead are yonder and break not one more heart,
they leave us things to ponder: accidental art.
Update: 2nd March, 2025. I recall writing this post after reflecting on the slow, relentless erosion of ancient sandstone gravestones in the many churchyards and cemeteries my work led me to. Time and the elements conspired like unseen sculptors, weathering away names and epitaphs until they became little more than whispers in stone. And it struck me – man provides the canvas, but nature wields the chisel, carving its own masterpiece with wind, rain, and time itself.
Whispers in Stone
Beneath the yew’s unyielding shade,
Where silent watchers stand,
The carven names of those who fade
Lie lost to Time’s cold hand.
The mason’s art, once proud and bright,
Now yields to rain’s embrace,
As lichen veils the fading light
Of each forgotten face.
No lover’s hand, no mourner’s tear
Revives the sinking name;
The chisel’s song none live to hear,
The dust recalls no fame.
Yet still the restless tempest sings
Its dirge upon the air,
And carves with unseen, patient wings
A beauty bleak and bare.
For man may shape, and man may write,
Yet stone shall bow and kneel,
What once was firm in black and white
Dissolves to mute appeal.
Wording 