Weddings and funerals, in the rare trip-place,
butted stone markers, dropped fags, and ill-grace:
Here Lies.. (A.N.Other) her time out-of-date,
alongside the latest, a brief recall in plate.
Our churchyards cursed by poets-come-thieves,
those poachers of hymns, and cheats in belief:
Let them stride loose, between slabs, low laid,
the church a salvation for those on crusades;
a theme park for tourists, a tick on their list,
a walk with the dead, shot quick on phone-sticks;
slowed-up in the aisle, as their eyes look to glass,
God’s kindles of colour can’t be caught on iPads.
In the yard scans the poet, as the thief wanders wide,
he is often disturbed, God is not on his side.