Photograph courtesy of Londonist

Photograph courtesy of Londonist

The leaves are long gone

The grass frostbitten.

In the sweep of the path

There is the sculpt of a thousand feet,

Shuffling onward

Into the old cemetery

In the shadow of St Pancreas.

Where the brightness of a milky sun

Sparkles across the high glass roof

Leaving an impression of

Diamond cut brilliance

When there is only the drab mundanity

Of coming and going

The emotional energy of arrival

The impact of parting.

Homecomings can be touched by sadness

Lives change more dramatically than timetables,

The gravestone tree is falling

Its cycle at an end

Hardy though it may be.

Thomas was an architect as well as a native

Who returned

To his beginnings

The tree is a symbol of life and passing

As all trees are,

So far from any madding crowd

In this quiet corner

Surrounded by so many epitaphs

Once well read

Now long faded, lost in meaning

Standing alone, together.

Marching to their maker's drum

Marking time, until the falling

What then of this understated splendour?

And how different this place will be

Come summer,

When tufts of grass grow lush and green

Between the cracked old stones.

The wildflowers,

Forcing their proud heads high

Nodding in deference to the dying

The old Ash drooping ever lower,

Its roots weakened by

The erosion of the years

The rattle of trains

The hum of electricity

And as the world moves ever onward

The hardy tree, now truly ruined

By rot and unawakened dead,

Falls.