We bought the house for a reason
No noisy neighbours as we back on to a graveyard
From my bedroom window, I imagine all sorts
At night, with a half-moon hanging low
Shadows shifting under a pale light
How many stroke victims lie beneath the cold earth?
What of murderers shot by the police
Some nights I hear the grunt of wild animals
Most likely hedgehogs
The wind carries the distant wail of someone in trouble
Too far away for me to be of help
Some nights I stand there too long
I need to stamp my feet to get the blood flowing
I often wish I had the courage to jump a train
At our local rail line, walk the streets of London.
I hear there will be much to feed my imagination
I don’t have time; it is my turn to help with the flowers
For midnight mass
I put the keys on the bedside dresser to remind me
Before I leave my window, I notice a flash of light
Level with the large grey stone that stands alone
Next morning with the keys in my pocket
I decided to have a look before flower arranging
I stood in front of a black marble headstone
The date read 1809 Margaret Stone, died aged 49
I felt sorry for her short life
Nothing strange here, where had the light come from?
Maybe the vicar, checking all’s well
As I turn my head to walk away
I noticed the words had changed
It now read, here lies James Young, died aged nine
This happened three more times before I could move away
Finally, my imagination hit a wall, it was something
I cannot explain or talk about
They would think me mad, call for the men in white jackets
As I was arranging the flowers
I wondered why they had all died so young
Was the gravesite like a multi-story building?
Occupants on top of each other
Did I have a glimpse of those who had been buried before?
I knew I couldn’t ask anyone
With all that running through my mind
I managed to do a good job with the flowers…
©anitadawes
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