Sprung

There’s no Spring but first the Winter’s sting.
The bells have tolled, but quiet this hour, the shadowed-steeple houses power. The tombstone lawn flooded in flowers, not man-given but definitely admired. Lady birds tack along, sharpen their beaks and feed their young. Chirping souls perched I pass, swooping down to gravestone grass. They hold a secret as petals fall, that new life births as death befalls. Set in stone since 1803, who cries for the dead but the Maytime trees. St. Paul's Chapel