Full of life, walking through these days, I wandered into a graveyard.

I was not in search of any particular grave and this was not a picturesque place; it was in fact quite the opposite. It sits in the grounds of a neglected church. The windows broken or boarded, duvets in its covered doorway the only evidence of recent use.

I have often passed this place, running or walking, and noticed the sad sight of memorials once proudly standing but now laid flat in the interest of health and safety.

As I walked around its mossy path, a black marble stone caught my eye. It marked a grave, a quarter of a century old; its occupant, a wife and mother. She shared my date of birth. A life cut short, in her thirties; no chance to test the notion that life begins at 40.

It challenged me, made me reflect on life and living. I felt a responsibility to make the most of life whilst there is breath in me. I walked away, down the hill, back into town, aware of the changing season. It brought to mind the words of Ecclesiastes. For everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die. A time to celebrate life.

2 thoughts on “Mortality

  1. I’m also fascinated by graveyards – they are a rich source of history and great for writing inspiration!


  2. As with a lot of your writing, there is a keen sense of the past, and the passage of time – this piece makes the reader reflect on changes that occur over time, in relation to society, and also how this impacts on the individual


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