A Country Churchyard

On grassy mounds tended by the sheep
the gravestones here lean out of true,
once carefully–chiselled records of the dead
wiped out by years of weather.
Two centuries ago, some mourner planted
a Wellingtonia much too near a grave.
Now, tall as a mast, Falstaffan in girth,
the spongy trunk has spread like cancer,
gripping half the stone, reminder that
hand in hand, and hip to hip,
Life tangos with Death.