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THE CLOCK HANDS MOVE FORWARD
- BUT ONLY FOR THE LIVING
By Josie Whitehead
It is so very still and peaceful
In St Peter’s country churchyard –
Flower filled, flower replete,
Undisturbed yet quite complete.
People tend the graves of the dead;
Families together clipping the grass,
Tending flowers; speaking in low tones.
Do not wake the sleepers!
There is love for this quiet churchyard.
See! New Life! Hundreds of daffodils!
The clock in the belfry strikes three,
But only for the living do clock hands move.
Above the graves in sunlight warm
They speak in hushed tones again,
Lest they should wake the dead
And then have to explain their doings.
Away from the graves, what memories?
What days of delight remembered?
What joyful occasions or sad times together?
Lives of the living and lives of the dead.
But look! It is the grave of a child -
A small boy who grew not to fruition;
A young child who knew not manhood
Or fatherhood, but was cheated of life on earth.
In this churchyard, between river and hills,
Tears fall, hearts break but birds sing.
Time does not heal the hearts of the mourners
And yet the clock hands move on for the living:
Tick tock Tick tock Tick . . . . . for eternity.
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