Seasons in the cemetery

DSC_0246.resizedThe last couple of weeks have been so different. The weather is warmer, and the sun higher, and the birds are singing, there are flowers in the beds and there is blossom on the trees.

It feels lovely. I watched a brimstone fly past and mused on how good the turning of the year feels, the passing of seasons, the cycle of growth and decay, the renewing and refreshing of nature. Those muddy tyre ruts are already scarcely visible. Nature erases the past. And that’s just great!

But read the stones and you see how determined we are to stop the clock. Forever, always, everlasting, never, eternal. In grief we reach for absolutes and defy the years.

DSC_0251.resizedI get the impression that the older graves are more restrained with their language. They speak of sadness and memory, but are less assertive about never forgetting and always remembering.

Or perhaps the impression is just because the older stones are harder to read, thanks to moss and fading letters. Their messages are muted by the same force that pushes daffodils into the light and turns pansies and primulas to the sun.

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One thought on “Seasons in the cemetery

  1. ianmac55

    I like your observations. I think the Victorians, despite the reputation we have given them, often had very pertinent tombstones – perhaps because they were used to death from and at an early age. A common epitaph, to remind us of our mortality, is “In the midst of life, we are in death.”

    Reply

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