From a bench in the village of Weeley

A bench in shadows on a small apron  
of land beside a crematorium  
and church. The light seductive on  
its ancient way to travellers,  
the dappled ken is cool and warm at once,  
and strangely unperturbed by passing cars.  
A rambler sits and prays a while hence,  
hands on knees and voice as quiet as dusk.  
The age of lengthy meditations past,  
he knows he'll have to stand and walk again,  
but as the fleeting moment lasts  
an old and silent spell will greet his lips:  
"Vanish the fleeting joy in winter graves,  
a little time in dappled April saves."