Sacred Acre

Well, I tipped my hat to the admiralty,

He was all red, and white, and black in finery,

And I could hear a murmuring as he came on,

Wings that dipped to catch the sun.

Well, I'm moving through this whispering place,

I am watchful where the earth and soil retakes,

I could count among the long and nodding grass,

A dozen lessons for a listening heart.

Watchful, peaceful,

Far and fast the starlings murmur,

Graceful freefall,

Far and fast the starlings murmur on.

Stars of earth spiral under my feet,

I find reflection on eulogies for spring,

And I could countenance among those sleeping swains,

Lonely outlined in the gentle rain.

So, is there life among these marker stones?

Surely life that leaps unique from creeping loam,

And where mists are turned from the velveteen,

Shadows threaded by the finger-wing.

Oh, I tipped my hat to the admiralty,

And this sacred acre's living memory,

And where Thistle-Martyrs mark Dissenters Road,

what rests in peace 'neath South-East London stone?

Ah, moving through this whispering scene,

Count upon the shining birds of January,

And where words fall short of this mortal plight,

Let me be understood in starling's height.