The Stewarton Kirkyard

Taken from the 1972 Bonnet Guild Festival Guide

I walk softly into history past

Gentle fan-tail pigeons, their rippling

'Kukuroos' escort me through the twentieth century

Living towards silent wall-to-wall dead.

I pause at the grave of my name-sake

Who died in the 11-year of her age

On 18- April (no date)

A few yards on, one reads,

'Andrew Procket built a stone in

Memory of his brother-in-law'

I shall ceaselessly wonder

About the nameless one.

The drone of bees is laced with

Bird song. Lucinda Trehair, a Pretty name!

Did her husband

Call her Cindy? Maybe Lucy?

'Thomas Smith was killed in India,

8th May, 1878, aged 27'. His death

Is recorded wittingly or unwittingly

On a stone of mayan beauty, made

Less pure by puking cant. '

Here Lyes the corps of Andrew Robertson,

Inn-keeper in Stewarton, 1676.'

He had his being when the first

Charles was executed. My thoughts Careen.

'Here lyes the corps of Andrew Mackieson,

1715. 'Oh! for a scattering

Of smooth iron seats to ease the lumbar region.

'William Robertson died at Scutari,

28th February, 1855, aged 30 years.

' By the time he reached hospital

Across the 'middle passage,'

Seventy-four bodies in every thousand

Were shuttered into the Black Sea;

They were the fortunate ones.

In 1885 At Scutari, only twenty-two per thousand perished.

I hope that William died quickly.

I see a stone dated 1660,

Another dated 1413, almost illegible -

'There lye's buried (what could be)

The face of David. David would have lived in the

Reign of James I, son of Robert III.

My mind boggles.

A feline predator haloed in gold

Shakes round my anides, her furry

Voice crackling with menace, hisses

'U-out.' Suspicion aroused,

I listen. On the clock tower wall blackbird

Nestlings teeter on the brink of

Flight, frenzied parents sound

Alarm notes. I swoop on gold

Fur, scooping her into my

Arms, and sweet-talk her

From the Kirkyard; her

Fury grazes my face. The minutes

Have pushed each other into now.
 

Mary Crowther