It may have been the sea shells
the cockles and clams, mussels and whelks
arranged in the shape of his initials
that drew me into the graveyard.
Or perhaps the hooded crow that sat sentinel
over Dan Hegarty's grave.
Not a sculpted effigy like the hare
that leapt over Robert Jack Harris
but the real deal, a stylish fellow,
ash grey feathers and pitch black cloak,
wary of my approach
to the point of weapons drawn-
Causing me to veer aft towards
the anchor marked grave of Bonzo,
an islander and a survivor
of Baltimore Industrial School,
who, according to the verse inscribed,
lay lonely in a quiet churchyard
above a murmuring sea.
But today the sea lay tranquil
while the tombstones murmured stirring tales
of ladies of no mean spirit,
true gentlemen, artists and actresses,
shoemakers, sailors and travellers
from Sussex to Connecticut to Sussex to here -
a green hillside overlooking their final harbour.
And I thought, despite the popularity of cremations
these days, there's nothing to beat a graveyard
for colourful narratives.
Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard
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