by W. McM. Cunningham
At last I’m there,
in the churchyard of
St. Michael and All Angels
conjuring the image
of my great-grand-parents
in eighteen-fifty-four.
A bright day in Yorkshire;
an old church of dark stone.
Inside, a knight’s tomb.
A Christian?
A wealthy local?
A link to a bygone age.
I meet a surly priest,
one of Henry’s brood,
who snarls, “This is not
a tourist attraction.”
Not a greeting met at
Walsingham,
Compostela,
Lourdes.
Were my great-grand-parents
greeted thus on wedding-day?
No matter to them,
young, and I hope,
in love.
They could not imagine
multiple descendants
sprung from their loins.
Now widely spread
around a world smaller
than their village.
You are gone to your
long home.
Unknown to me
as I to you.
Thank you for what
you bequeathed me.
— W. McM. Cunningham lives near Sydney, Australia
