The Churchyard by the Pool

You must bury me here, close to the shore,
where the high arch of the old timber bridge
will form a ring for my remembrance
with her rippled sister below;
where the woods stride down through the water,
and the slate-spread wings of the rising heron
reflect in those soft, sunsparkled pools
as she lifts above the salt flats.

You must bury me here, close to the shore,
at that time when the scarlet tides move
to meet the dying sun, and
when the darkening waters of night
hide for a while the secret of the magic dawn.

You must bury me here, close to the shore,
so that when the wild cries of curlew and raven and gull
echo across the high rocks where we stood that day
you will know that I am not far from you,
and I promise that I shall be
close as the gentle breeze on your cheek,
as the feather touch of rain in the April sun,
close as your own breathing, joined
in the one forever stream of love.