(A short walk through a Sevenoaks churchyard)
Hestor was a wife. She was remembered with love by her husband, after she died in 1802. Her gravestone still stands and her name is still legible, despite the threat of a colony of white spots.
Other names are invisible, swept away by the elements. Or have dates that are gripped by ivy or are enriched by banks of moss.
Daffodils bunched together on one grave put others in the shade. An annual celebration for a man called Herbert. He must have loved the Spring.
A small cross nestles beneath a larger one just in front of Herbert. Lichen hid their story of connection a long time ago.
And there’s a stone that’s wedged on its corner, detached by a crack that has slipped in increments until settling in its final resting place.
Initials and memories, dates and lives, whose tales lie silent, deep in the soil.
Have Paprika, Will Travel 