Here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions,
not even a crude carving of a protestation of affection,
such statements being reserved for lesser trees in public parks
where the knife-carrying classes
are not over-taxed by distance, and mud.

In this quiet corner the moss goes steadily about its business
of covering static casualties with a warm green blanket.
The insects scurry noiselessly retrieving and reassembling
till satisfied with the outcome of their industry.
The autumn leaves cling on to memories of grander days,
blown by winds to settle next to new companions,
yet no less morose over their condition.
The wild garlic pokes through, supplying a confident breath.
In time it will conceal the ceaseless rearrangement of death.

And the differences betwixt last year and the year before:
the great gale when the weak were vanquished and the sturdy tested;
and the upheaval of the planting programme of eighty-three,
and that afternoon the widow came stealthily to make a little hole
for the ashes of her deeply loved and much missed husband,
and the child who tripped and bled and cried,
and the cuckoo which used to come here
but now strangely does not -
none of this is recorded.

For here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions.

Lacock Abbey, Wilts.
Nikon D2Xs + Tamron Di II SP AF 17-50mm f/2.8 XR LD Aspherical lens.