The air is still and fragrant
with soft scents of the sea
and new-mown grass.
A peaceful village, this,
few cars, few people,
a shop, a tearoom,
and the sea.

A peaceful church,
dark-stained, cards on a table
no scent, alas--
we live in Reformation times.
Just a church, well-used
with loving care tended
in Anglican security and love.

In the churchyard,
the dead sleep peacefully
no ghastly forms disturb,
no strangled lovers,
no silkies haunt
but well-tended graves
face the sea in death.

On these streets
the aged proliferate--
a good place to grow old,
gossip over scones and tea
escape anonymity.
A good place to die--
in beauty and in peace.

I visit often,
long for old age to come
and at the length of life,
a quiet grave
facing the sea
in an old country churchyard