Walking in the graveyard, a maze
Of angels and families
The path coils like a shaving of wood
We stop to read the names.
In time they all come around
Again, the spearbearer, the spongebearer
Ladder and pillar
Scooped from shallow beds.
Carrying black clothes
Whiskey and ham for the wake
The city revolves
White peaks of churches clockwise lifting and falling.
The hill below the barracks
The sprouting sandstone walls go past
And as always you are facing the past
Finding below the old clockface
The long rambles of the spider
In the narrow bed of a saint
The names inscribed travelling
Into a winter of stone.