In the cemetery, everything is yellow: the ground carpeted with leaves, mirrored by those still clinging to trees.
The plastic flowers on gravestones, the new graffiti on the wall, and the gentle patter of rain create an atmosphere that stands in stark contrast to the bustling city just outside.
While cars rumble, children play, and trains pass by, here, there is a profound quiet—a tranquility found in the most unlikely of places.
Beneath the trees, I listen closely to the sound of rain hitting the leaves. The sycamore drums, the elm patters, and the beech falls somewhere in between.
The yew, however, remains silent.
Alone in this pursuit, I am grateful for the peace and solitude the cemetery offers. The world around me fades as I focus on this moment of serene observation.
As I brush leaves from gravestones to read the inscriptions, I watch springtails propel themselves back into darkness.
Among the gravestones, nature thrives—magpies, jays, and foxes sharing the space with the past.Among the weathered stones, I find the names of Edmunds, Marys, Johns, and Elizabeths, their inscriptions worn by time.
Some of these gravestones date back to 1875, though others are barely legible after 150 years of weathering.
The cemetery is alive with subtle signs of life—magpies, jays, and long-tailed tits flit among the graves, while foxes leave desire paths that lead to hidden gardens.
I wonder if badgers make their homes here, or if hedgehogs nest in the piles of grass and leaves. There are even clues of nesting birds in tree hollows, waiting for spring to arrive.
In the city, the starlings murmurate, the wagtails roost, and migrating birds make their way south.
But in the cemetery, surrounded by the living and the dead, the rain falls gently, and time seems to slow, offering a brief escape from the noise and chaos of the outside world.