Poetry & Prose
The Anglo-Saxon Burial Ground

They sleep,

Under the ground

Pressed in cold soil

In layers deep


Below the plough.

Water runs and

Collects the memory

Of their world. Now


In the quiet hours,

Mooncast shadows

Freeze the house and

The river scours


Through our dreams;

Echoes their voices.

The constant murmur

Of their past, streams


Across the years,

Into our lives.

Their spirits whisper.

We cry their tears.