Tag Archives: death

The Bird Of Ill Omen

At about 8:30 pm, on Sunday 9 September, I was strolling through All Saints churchyard (https://newauthoronline.com/2018/09/09/graves-and-poems/). As I passed through the graveyard, I heard a voice loud and clear. It was that of an owl, although I was unable to determine whether he was in the churchyard or somewhere close by.

We humans have a great capacity for attributing to living creatures (other than man) significance. On seeing a black cat we think of witches, of bad luck and the horned god himself. Likewise, on hearing the owl, as dusk was falling on an evening in early Autumn, I thought on Macbeth and death. As I did so, my poem “Owl” came to mind, https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/28/k-morris-reading-his-poem-owl-2/.


Graves and Poems

A number of my poems reference All Saints Church and, in particular it’s graveyard, although none refer to that place of worship by name. The church was constructed between 1827-29 and you can find out about it’s history here. As regards the graveyard, you can read about it here and here.

As mentioned above, a number of my poems refer to All Saints Church Graveyard, including ‘In the Churchyard today’:

In the Churchyard today,

Through the play,

Of light and shade,

I my shadow made.


When I go away,

Will my shadow stay,

Behind for people to see,

And say,

‘That was he,

And now midst light and shade,

His shadow is forever made’.


This poem can be found in ‘The Writers Pen and other poems’, with the UK and US links following:


With thanks to my friend Shanelle, I have included below several photographs which show All Saints Church and its environs. In the tiled mosaic image below there are photographs of myself and Trigger in the graveyard, as well as the church and some of the graves.

On Hearing Of The Death Of A Former Colleague

The business of work stopped
When the sickle chopped
For you
To wield a pen.
But you
Could laugh too.

How silent is the office now
That your paperwork is done.
The serious and the fun
All must
In the end
In dust,
And in the memories of we who live on
After you are gone.

Macbeth’s Owl

In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?

On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.

Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.

You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.

My Grandfather

On a hot
I lack the words to say
How the smell
(I know so well)
Carried me away
To where I can not stay,
For he has gone into the forest green
(Which I have seen
Though I can not follow him yet).

I can not forget
Those happy days (now tinged with regret)
For a fence does divide.
Yet he lives inside
My heart
And is forever a part
Of me.

The land I see
Beyond the fence is lush
With tree and bush.
I can not rush
And no not when
I shall see him again.
But see I must
For I am dust
As he
Who loved me.


My poem, “Leaves Blown At Night”, came to me as I walked with my guide dog, Trigger, on a December evening in Liverpool. The leaves blowing around my feet reminded me of the fleetingness of things and, in particular my own mortality