In response to ‘An Epitaph in Kilraughts Old Graveyard ’

Here Lie I, Peter Patterson…

Here among the nettles

That sway and sting at your ankles,

Where the sun caresses your curious face

…The remains of my Granduncle, Peter,

My Mother and me lie interred here.

Where the Yew trees find roots

In my crumbled coffin.

Under sodden earth and stone,

…By this you may clearly see that our eyes are closed in death…

Since seventeen-ninety-seven.

While poets and dreamers

Stand scrawling my words because

…From our tongues, no jarring notes resound.

We might meet at the last, friend.

And I will not just be a name, but

A man,

…And with spiritual bodies we’ll rise.

The names carved in granite

And moss-covered stones

Will all be remembered

…When the last trumpet will sound.