My dear old mum is buried at the village church at Stourmouth, which is now sadly empty and not used anymore. We visited over the week-end and it prompted this poem of memories of my childhood.

In our village church, each Sunday,
the choirs singing, would fill my heart,
and made me long, that one day,
I could join them and take part.

At services, our voices sang,
heavenly music through the air,
joining as the church bells rang,
calling everyone to prayer.

But now alas, the church is closed,
the new villagers do not care.
The vicar with this problem posed,
sought another church elsewhere.

My mum would take me by the hand,
and lead me across the field,
wearing my ruff and cassock grand,
as those lovely bells they pealed.

As she sat in the pews, with my brothers there,
I sang for her in the choir.
Now alas the church is bare,
with nothing to inspire.

So now when I visit that graveyard,
I stand by her grave near the fir,
on that ground, so cold and hard,
and silently sing for her.