a cemetery - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In this place of loving words, where the earth welcomes back her own, I find a tranquility, a sense of connection to those I have passed on. It is a place to feel that expansive universal love cementing in my bones. So, to me, this cemetery is place for soulful reflection, to hear the emotions with a clarity that comes with such quiet. We were sailors on a stormy sea, each blaming the other for the wind.
The boughs of the cemetery twist like contorted bones, writhing in a silent scream. Beneath them lie the cold stones, each marking a dwelling place in which no-one is home. I'm never bothered by the howl of the wind until I must traverse this place, then it's all I can hear.
The cemetery is the shortest way home. From the north gate I can see the lamplight shining on the other side, the welcoming yellow glow that falls on the sidewalk leading home. My eyes scan for movement, but in this wintry darkness all that comes back is the whitened ground and the outline of tombstones almost lost to the night. When the gate opens it is with an announcing creak, a doorbell for this open crypt. Then I don't walk but sprint to the other side neither looking right or left, eyes locked on that lamplight ahead.
To enter the cemetery I must skirt around a pile of brown frosted leaves, the innumerable flashing fragments shine in the brilliant wintry light, for today there is no weather; no wind, no cloud, just subzero temperatures. Even the leaf stems lie white and sharp. Ahead the path glistens like white quartz, yet ice crystals on weary concrete is all it is. All this beauty over everything dead. And here I am to add to it with a bunch of pink roses in my gloved hand. I pause, my breath rising in visible puffs, then I remember why I came. I need to talk to her and this is the only way. I'm not here for her, not really. I'm here for me. The proximity to her frigid bones and the gift of flowers will close the gap between us for a moment, and in that brief window of time I will feel her love again.
The cemetery is cool and there is dew on the grass. The other mourners are a little way off yet as we round the top of the hill. My father is to my left and my brother to my right. The air is fresh and, unlike the unloved graves further away, here they are covered in bright blooms. Despite the greenery I don't know what season it is. I don't know because this is a thirty year old memory. I can recall the details of that day better than any birthday or christmas, it's clearer in my mind than even last weekend. I have only but to recall it and I am treading that grass again in my black pants with the white flecks, the ones I didn't feel were black enough. Funerals are funny like that, the height of raw emotion that swells to see your loved one committed to the soil sears the memory into your mind, that one day forever coloured in vibrant hues. In time the cemetery shifts out of daily memories, every few days, then every few weeks, then every few months - but always there to be recalled.
The cemetery should be spooky and fill me with chills, walking amongst the bones of my ancestors. Yet in this mid-morning light under a cloudless sky, the air fragrant with pine-needles, it feels more like the park on a Sunday afternoon. I have time to admire the ivy that creeps over the autumnal ground and pause to read the inscriptions that will soon be stolen by the freeze-thaw of another winter. The ground has a softness that will be gone in just a few weeks more, frozen as hard as the stones it supports. Here, amid the long departed, there is time to contemplate without being disturbed. Few folks walk here for fun and it was filled up decades ago.
The cemetery is a jumble of stones, as if the burial places were chosen by throwing the shovel in the air and digging where it landed. They sit at jaunty angles to one another, no two of them the same shape or size. The only thing that ties them together is their age, all of them over a century...
The cemetery whispers under the sallow moon, a frigid wind rustling newly browned leaves, each of them becoming more crisp as Halloween draws closer. Tabitha moves across the cold earth on tiptoes, her feet faster than any ballet dancer on any stage in the world. Her heart accelerates as her scarf beats against each passing stone and her face will remain rigid until she bursts into the street on the other side, sucking in air like she's never really breathed before.
All that is left of the fine people of this cemetery is the decrepit stones. Under the soil is nothing but more soil, even bones don't last that long in the damp ground. Yet still this place is nowhere to be after nightfall. No-one comes here who means any good, so though it is empty almost every dusk 'til dawn, it puts the chills on even the toughest of folks.
I always liked being in the cemetery, its quiet, peaceful. The dead laid to rest, grave stones in promise of not being forgotten, but a promise which is always broken. I like to visit the old crooked, crumbling grave stones the people who have had no one visit or care in a long time, I leave a single flower upon each headstone. I like the way time seems to stand still, the wind unmoving, the birds always quite like they know. I like to hide behind the tall leafless oak and watch the tears trail down the face of grief stricken widows, to hear them cry and scream begging for longer with their love. I don't like that they're sad, I like watching the raw emotion, it is beautiful. And for a second makes me believe the dead wont be forgotten although to be forgotten is inevitable.