The gates are rusted
Ivy grows
Peeping out
Between metal toes
The opening hours
Upon a dirty plaque
Lopsided
Like the caretakers hat.
When twilight arrives
The old church creaks
Granite blocks
Scuttling feet
The weather vane
Sits up high
Blending into
The darkening sky.
The trees appear
To close ranks
Glistening marble
Overgrown banks
Each angel gravestone
In day looks down
Appears to stare
All around.