COMPETITION

Grave situation

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1558 you were in- vited to write an 'Elegy on a Country Churchyard' in the metre of Gray's famous poem.

Marauding louts have shot the moping owl: The tower is silent 'neath the wat'ry moon; But Lady Porter, lately on the prowl, Will sell the place for pennies very soon.

If there were a prize for the best single quatrain E. 0. Parrot might get it for that one, and David Lambert second prize for this:

The church no more eschews the madding crowd.

Far from it, they're all camping on the lawn.

The Vicar gave his blessing; he allowed The Hippy Convoy in at peep of dawn.

I also relished R. Reymond's washing-lines displaying 'the short and simple flannels of the poor'.

Honourable mentions to Noel Petty, Philip A. Nicholson, D. E. Poole, Jonathan Fernside and Martin Fagg. Your actual prizes, of £15 to each winner, go to those printed below. The bonus bottle of Cockburn's Late Bottled Vintage Port 1982, presented by Cockburn Smithes & Co. Ltd, is won by Geoffrey Riley.

The bypass lights gleam amber in the dusk, The evening traffic hurtles homeward bound. Above the din the church rears up, subfusc, Remote, unnoticed on its ancient mound.

The Church Appeal Fund, now at half-waY mark, May save the leaking roof and crumbling plinth, But spares no thought for where, discreetly dark, The graveyard stands, a tangled labyrinth.

Weed-choked, collapsed, lie tombs of the long- dead

To which no random visitors now come. (Mourners today go down the road instead To the new, neat-trimmed Crematorium.) Here, ruins show Fate's touch of poignant wit: That stone and iron, intended to protect From time and desecration, should submit To the unlooked-for enemy — neglect.

(Geoffrey Riley) The siren from the airfield drowns the choir, Startling the spirits from their hiding place; A mammoth ruby glows above the spire To guide marauding aircraft back to base.

Here lie the crumpled cans of Coke and beer Flung carelessly by vandals as they pass, And tell-tale imprints stealthily appear Where late-night lovers lingered in the grass.

Time was when Ben would labour all the day, A churchyard relic in his old straw hat; Now contract gardeners make proverbial hay And wrap the whole thing up in two hours flat.

And Ben is gone, nor was he loath to go, Hung up his hat and downed his garden rake. Better, he said, to be six feet below Than victim of a nuclear mistake.

(Maureen Melvin) God's Acre, forecourt of Eternity!, Where weeds grow rank and lilies fade away, Where cat hunts rat, but cat from brats must flee, And straying hens cluck loud, yet never lay.

One single Sabbath day in every foUr The Vicar treads this path with hurrying feet: Where discourse lacks all force, except to bore, To preach infrequently is right and meet. Beneath this thousand-year-old yew tree's shade, Where binder-twine secures the churchyard gate, An ailing sexton soon with well-worn spade Old Squire's last manor-house must excavate.

Soft-feathered owls on wintry eves will stir Snowflakes slow drifting through the ghostly gloom; In summer-time the casual picnicker Shall rest his Thermos on a new-carved tomb.

(Alcuin Davies) The church clock strikes a most unlikely hour, The minutes creep interminably by; The flag that flutters from the ancient tower Is flying upside-down against the sky.

The gargoyles at each corner of the roof Leer and grimace in a repulsive way.

The cracked and tuneless bell gives ample proof It and the church have known a better day.

That edifice that crowns an aged tomb Is covered now with lichen and with moss, And we shall never know who mourned for whom, Nor whether they were troubled by their loss.

And on the gravestones scattered on the grass Full many an undeciphered name is seen. The curious, questing eyes of those who pass Remain in ignorance of what has been.

(Marjorie Moore) Neglected sorely, ragged, overgrown, The once trim garden of the house of God, The church where long I worshipped I disown: The glory is departed, Ichabod!

These fallen gravestones, eloquent of death, Still bear some witness to the village past; The bowman's yew draws out its latest breath Beneath the wall, by ivy's chains held fast.

But who is this, so frail and bent with years, That valiantly wields sickle, spade and rake? Yet hardly wields; for will, not strength, en- dures.

Gone eighty-five must be the sexton, Blake.

'Well, William, it is, good to see you here.'

'Just back to visit, sir? I might have guessed.' 'You're on your own, no one to interfere?'

'None now, sir. Thank you, sir. I do my best.'

(David Heaton)