I walk between the arch of trees,
From the fields;
Towards a church long forgotten
After the ground under it gave way
And sit looking out at the graves
Of 18th century aristocrats
Coated in forget-me-nots
And moss and long untended to
Names worn and barely visible

I look past into the forests,
Of trees who took root far longer ago
Than these powerful men
Who sat privy to the king and queens;
Now too, long underground.
Their strong and everygreen bark
Trunks thick, like giants above me,
Of brown and red and green.
Birds chirping in their rafters.

Ivy hanging from them,
Crossing the boundary between gates,
Hooking into crumbling walls
As they grow up structures
Who do not take root around them
But stay stagnant and are destoryed
By roots that disassemble
Even by the spring rain that falls,
Who will be here long after?