Timeless

I walk through the churchyard,

the grass just mown,

that bite of green filling my nose.

It was sunny earlier, but a wind 

has whipped up.

The church is at the top of the hill,

and I can see the sea churning grey.

The man who's cut the grass,

sweeping paths amongst the headstones,

is leaning against a huge raised grave,

the kind that I never know what they're called.

He's got his woollen jumper sleeves rolled up,

and is smoking a rollie. 

He looks at me,

nods to the sky.

Looks back to the sea.

A thick bank of cloud hangs above us,

and fog is bleeding the horizon,

blurring the water. 

"It's coming in," he says, perhaps to me,

but not looking away from his view.

The wind makes my hair fly.

I walk on, thinking we could be in any era here, 

we could be in a Thomas Hardy novel,

not 2024 with the world in my pocket,

and an electric lawnmower just out of sight.

The sky darkens.

He was right.

I walk on,

in twenty steps I'm met by the rain,

dancing on my glasses as I go.