Cemetery Stone

A jungle of empty white lines.
As my feet cling to the grey concrete, I find my eyes gazing
Towards the poppy field, the flowering lamppost, the sea of ashes.
Endless spray carnations, fixed to a point in time,
A place where each timeline ceased forevermore.
Shifting nervously, my feet find the path to the petal;
It’s is flowering with fresh grieving.
Wives and husbands,
Mothers and fathers,
Sisters and brothers,
Daughters and sons.
Eventually my steps lighten to find
The vast green expanse,
No bigger than his hospital room.
Crouching feels appropriate,
Speaking doesn’t.
No urge have I ever had to speak
Beyond the soil and stone in front of me,
Nor have I ever envisaged an omniscient presence
That can be reached like a takeaway deity.
Bearded ressurectionists or biblical optimists
Bare no sway in this way.
Sitting here feels like resolution,
For myself, for my father, for my mother, and my brother.



In this time of community amongst football, one word seems common in each breath: pray.

The power of God seems to flood many hearts with hope and security that something better will come. I stand in awe of how, when faced with such a public tragedy, we retreat behind one word to show our support. Our modern culture seems to dismiss God, using religion as a tool to harm rather than heal. However, the events of yesterday pose a very engaging question: is religion our strongest and most suppressed defence mechanism?

I will consider this further in the morning – I am sure the teens I engage with will share their miss-guided truth.