Overlooked by pensioners’ flats, the plots,
fresh-mown, are neat as wards. Granite
headboards are inscribed with dates, jobs
even addresses. Statues of status; storytellers.
They die too young here. The flowers and toys
imply all-day parties for departed friends:
Daffydd, Ivor, Gwynne. These stones will conga
until dawn, or line dance every Friday
or rave behind the yew, smashed on acid rain.
They will invite the old folks round at dusk
for cheese and wine and some will choose
to stay on dancing. The gate is swinging shut.