CONFEDERATE CEMETERY, ALTON, ILLINOIS
All of the names of the dead are Celtic
or English. Most of them died – in the prison
near the river – from typhoid rather than wounds.
Nobody set out to be cruel – farmers’
sons killing farmers’ sons. Their graveyard
above the bluffs was grassed, an obelisk built,
their names cast in bronze, bolted to limestone.
From the highway, there is no signage.
Eagles winter on the bluffs. America’s heart
is green and fecund: a confluence –
Illinois, Missouri, Mississippi.
ST JAMES CEMETERY, TOXTETH
The graveyard had been a sand stone quarry
before Victorian memento mori
filled it. Here were held the obsequies
of gentry and skivvies, cotton kings
and seamen. In the ‘60s, it was unkempt,
the unfinished Anglican Cathedral,
in machine cut sand stone, pristine above it.
The bell ringing practice would start at 9.00
every Saturday morning – the heaviest
eight bell peal in the world. It’s oh so English
chiming cacophony filled the houses
of Liverpool 8’s grand Victorian streets.
So there was never a chance of an
undisturbed lie-in and, anyway, that day,
in an emollient and yet enticing
late May, I was revising for an exam
on teleology or ontology,
epistemology, eschatology
or whatever. Fifty years on I forget –
but I do remember that the intense
silence, which usually accompanied
the end of the practice at noon, never
occurred. Instead, there was a murmur –
like pages turned or dried leaves rustled.
Curious, I went out. The cemetery
and the pavements above were filled with
excited children. There were scores of them.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked. ‘Why are you here?’
‘West Derby, Everton Heights, The Dingle –
for the monsters, the fairies, the spirits.’
They were excited but gentle, answering
my questions willingly – exploring
the cemetery with enthusiasm
and care. By twilight, they had all gone.
There was no mention in the local press
and none of the neighbours seemed aware.
Now the cemetery has been largely
landscaped – in effect, evacuated.
A natural spring in the east wall still
pours forth, rising in Edge Hill, emptying
into the river, running beneath
and cleansing the temples of mammon.
CONFEDERATE CEMETERY, ALTON, ILLINOIS
All of the names of the dead are Celtic
or English. Most of them died – in the prison
near the river – from typhoid rather than wounds.
Nobody set out to be cruel – farmers’
sons killing farmers’ sons. Their graveyard
above the bluffs was grassed, an obelisk built,
their names cast in bronze, bolted to limestone.
From the highway, there is no signage.
Eagles winter on the bluffs. America’s heart
is green and fecund: a confluence –
Illinois, Missouri, Mississippi.
PARISH CHURCH, BURFORD
Hear them, silent on the leads,
watching their comrades,
the ensign, the corporal and the private
shot by firing squad
amongst the elms in the graveyard below.
Under the leaves in the summer,
Cromwell’s New Model Army
was practising democracy,
selecting all ranks for exemplary death –
the only leveller.