Martlesham graves

We walked a few cold miles this morning across field, waterside and woodland and up the hill to Old Martlesham church where snowdrops lie thickly over graves of long ago

After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place -
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.

Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.

Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way, --
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.

Emily Dickinson