‘Cemetery in Powys’ by Helen Kay

  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 … Continue reading ‘Cemetery in Powys’ by Helen Kay