weird lover wilde
A dreaded sunny day
so let's go where we're happy
and I meet you at the cemetery gates
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now ?
With loves, with hates
With passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
Not the best lyrics by The Smiths, but "The Cemetry Gates" basically summarizes the best part of yesterday. My friend and I found an old church, all weathered bricks and a fantastic spire, surrounded by a cemetery. It was beautifully unkempt, vines stifling tombstones and overgrown grass blurring the gravelines. There was a bright blue milk crate in on the road; completely was out of place, so we moved it.
We dodged the puddles and earthenware and clambered to the graves. The rocks had eroded over time, but we ran our hands over the engravings, making out the early deaths or loving memories of the people that lay beneath.
These Jonathon Thomases and Emma Janes that lived a hundred and fifty years ago seemed in place here. In day’s the soft light and the twisted tree roots at their feet, they were at rest. I can’t say the same for the modern cemeteries, where rows and rows of neat little plaques on manicured lawns lay exposed in the sun, by the highways. A storage place. So tidy you can’t even imagine them being haunted. When I die, don’t bury me there, whatever you do.