The Cemetery on Wilford Hill
It is long long ago that white cold morning I crawled to the foot of the bed, to the window and saw it, right at the edge of the garden, caught it out, almost half-way to the — shrapnel of gravestones, black in the snow like scree on the hillside, row after row and the hill itself, looming, terribly close. Did it think I wouldn’t take notice? know? Not stir to the grate of stone on stone as I slept, the crunch and grind of bones as the dead picked up their legs and crept inch by inch to where we lay like death, but not – not ready yet – nor feel the dragging wake of earth as the ship, the hill was, broke its berth and tried to break us like a wave beneath it. This was long ago. It changed tack when I told it to, and never trespassed on our sleep again, but there are times I’ve sensed movement back behind the trees, those summer evenings, thick with heat, forgetful with it. Still, I know that slither of grave-grey stone; the hill blank and bitter with snow.