Ian Armistead

The creeping chill
but nothing lives
the air is still
nothing gives.

Old floral wreath
round stones decay
insipid colours
no life to say

The gravels crunch
but nothings there
gates are chained
no ones aware

That after all
have gone to sleep
behind closed gates
the spirits creep

Guardians of dead
they walk
no moans or chains
no groans or talk

Just roam the damp
the sodden ground
keepers of night
without a sound

So if you brave
this place alone
be sure to leave
or claim your stone.