Alone at Bunhill

Autumn's first golden day, the mood is still,
sunshine permeates the shade at Bunhill.
A burial ground where hope is alive,
memories relived and ideas thrive.
No kings, no masters, no church for prayer,
but a dream to cling to hangs in the air,
air that I'll breath until my dying breath.
At Bunhill I write that I don't fear death.
It's superfluous to write one more verse,
but on a day like this, I could do worse.
Old leaning tombstones reflect the way I feel;
inspired by silence, alone at Bunhill.


Capability Red            2012