So today I went to a spoken word poetry event . One of my favourite venues chilled and friendly. Beautiful old church.
This is the story I told after I’d finished reading I was approached by a lovely lady who is possibly a relation of Matthew the man in the story.
As she spoke I was reminded of what I already know
Without doubt we are all connected. We are a circle within a circle with no beginning and never ending.
Read on tell me what you think?
I worship the old gods of this land the isle of Albion.
I follow the wheel of the year. Tonight the wheel turns it is Samhain eve in a 13c churchyard.
Its 3am and almost a full moon. There is a avenue of yew trees and it’s without one of the most magical places I know.
It’s my favourite place for ritual. The place I come to give thanks, to show gratitude. To talk with spirit.
To think to read. To just to be.
I wonder from my usual path many of the tombstones are overgrown covered in ivy surrounded by knot weed.
Standing back from all the others is an old stone old coffin shaped base it is covered in ivy.
I’m always drawn to it but no details are visible.
I stand in the moonlight. I ask ‘who are you?’
Touching the base of the cold stone.
I start to pick at the ivy..
it has pushed its way into the grey stone clinging green fingers into the details of intricate carved words.
I chant and hum quietly to myself it becomes quite mediative
As I pull at the vines they come away in narly sharp lengths sometimes tiny pieces that cling with remarkable strength.
We are a circle within a circle with no begining and never ending. I sing to my yet unknown companion
Time slips by slowly and the winter sun begins to rise birds begin to sing.
The carved words become visible.
I read out loud. Matthew Goodridge. Age 43
Mellincreethin a shiver runs through me as I read the next line .
Died 31 Oct 1888 Samhain..
Further down I read the names of Matthews daughters .Sarah Anne 14. Tirzah 9.
I catch a glimpse of someone watching me from the avenue of yew trees a tall man he nods smiles politely lifts his cap as he walks slowly through the avenue of sacred yews.
Matthew I whisper.
The sun shines as Celtic new year is born.
I sit there beside Matthew his two young daughters .
I will remember you Matthew.
My samhain ancestor of this place I love.
We are a circle within a circle. With no beginning and never ending.
All of us connected. The stuff of stars.
That was four years ago Matthew.
Your stone stands straight and tall cleared cleaned and cared for.
I remember you often.
This poem is for you.
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on centuries old welsh stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I would exist
You died centuries before I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you. stardust connected
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Matthew goodridge , the place you filled
hundreds of years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder of your life you lived of those l loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and stand here to honour you.