Here’s a poem I wrote about 15 years ago when we were living just west of London in Buckinghamshire. Only a short drive from our house in Gerrard’s Cross was a little village called Stoke Poges, whose claim to fame is a beautiful little country churchyard in which the English poet Thomas Gray reportedly wrote his most well-known poem, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” which begins with these lines:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
I visited the churchyard occasionally to experience the peace, beauty and quiet of both the churchyard and St. Giles Church, part of which dates to the Saxon era. On one visit, this poem emerged, a reflection on the death of my father just a few years before.
Elegy Written in Thomas Gray’s Country Churchyard
His death never really touched me
until I stood before the grave of the poet’s mother
and read the words that must have fallen like stones from his hands
in that place so far from the madding crowds.
My father chose to die in so many ways
over so many years and yet
when the moment came he could not make the call.
The decision had to be ours, as offspring.
Like gods sitting in stiff-backed chairs
we decided that his body could no longer take everything he threw at it.
And although he welcomed death, courted it, even egged it on
with cigarettes, whiskey and indifference
when the machine was turned off he resisted for a while.
Some last-minute attempt at living, we supposed.
But in the morning he was gone
and in the rush of arrangements
I forgot to mourn.
Or couldn’t, I’m not sure which.
But mourning doesn’t go away just because
it is left unused.
It lies buried deep within the cold and awaits
your calling or perhaps comes on its own
in an unbeckoned moment
standing in a country churchyard.
A fine poem, Steve, and a good choice for Memorial Day. Coming from South of here, I grew up with this holiday being called Decoration Day, and the ritual was to go to the graves of our family members (all that we could easily go to–some were out of town or state) and leave simple flowers. In my childhood, it was cut roses from our yard in mason jars of water. Later we planted Geraniums by the main headstone (back when that was allowed). Yes, we honored the service members who died in wars with a simple flag at their markers, but the day was about remembering the lives of our ancestors who have gone before us. So your poem touches on that wonderfully. Thanks!
Thanks, Judi. I had forgotten about “Decoration Day,” but my parents used that name, too. I’ve been stumped lately for new writing topics so I cheated and used this old poem!
Affecting poem. I am going to share it with my husband, whose experience with mournng his father’s death was/is very similar to yours. I love your blog.