for Robert Wells
The land low-lying – the fen drained –
Still partakes of the flood, and the soil
Of this green graveyard still has the swell,
The broken swell, of a calm sea, beneath which
Graves are submerged.
And this church – dateless, its wall at a lean
And no tower – is a beached ship,
Perhaps of northern pirates who having no more
Rich coastal abbeys to fire, settling,
From the deep half-salvaged, there is one tombstone
That rears above the surface where leaf-light swims
In the shade of an oak-tree, ageless, ivied –
The stone entwined by the same ivy, its name
Blotted by moss.
Beside recent deaths, no other stone
In sight – though here and there, a vague swell
Covers a forgotten life. This
Particular spot in the shade, he must have
Chosen for memory.