Slow Poetry

Strange Awakening

I am standing by your grave,
A tranquil rest as I pass by.

Your Chapel lies in ruins,
Its burial ground abandoned.

Enfolded by the fells, and
Comforted by their permanence,
No roads disturb your peace.

Can you hear the curlew cry?
Can you sense the silence?

I’ve reached the age at which you died,
Your life, cruelly shortened.

Supposing mine should end so soon?
What would I regret?