Sunday Poem

STONES FROM ASHBOURN CHURCHYARD (a selection)

Jesse Quantrill, Miller

The toll taken, the grist drest:
Here the bran, the flour with Christ.


Mary Girling

Eighty years old and late November,
Hurry! I shiver—
Colder than I care to remember:
Throw the quilt over.


Matthew Weathly (1848-1882)
Matthew Weathly (1873-1882)

Since smallpox took all my wealth
I am forever beside myself.


Infant Travis

Ere we named him
Death had claimed him.
We would be giving
Names to the living,
So sleep, little son,
Without one.


Harry Kemp, Shoemaker

Long life passed
Where hammer and nail
Told bickering tale.
God hushed that sound
And Harry found
His toil ended,
His soul mended—
Peace at last.

From Ashbourn (1986) by John Reibetanz.