I went to Wellogate cemetery in Hawick to visit my parents’ grave and was shocked at the wonton destruction of headstones by obviously disillusioned kids. So the attached is instead of a letter.
The Wellogate, a place of rest,
For dead of Hawick these long long years,
Their spirit freed, but their remains dug deep in ground,
A marker placed for those still left around,
To stand close by and shed a tear.
A place where memories take clearer shape,
Than ever can in home or noisy street.
Of mums and dads, sisters, brothers,
Wee children and many others,
Who loved and laughed and made life more.
To be in peaceful fields of grass and flowers,
With hope that those who entered here, are left at rest,
For them no fear of war, or pain and death,
Their earth-bound journey over.
But not to be it would appear,
Some scum that have no wish to hear,
The peaceful birdsong, nor to see,
The well-cut lawns and tended pathways,
That is the kingdom of the dead.
These callous worthies show no respect,
When in the night they climb the walls and enter in,
To smash up gravestones and scatter flowers,
And play the brave men with great powers,
To take on those that can’t defend,
Their bit of ground and sculpted stone,
That tells that they once lived.
These gutter worms should think ahead,
Whilst smashing down stones of the dead,
That time will come for death to call,
For those that louped the cemetery wall.
Then they will join the other world,
And hope for peace and quietness to be theirs,
As they approach the Wellogate,
They may just wish, with some regret,
That they had shown more respect to those already dead.
As, at the gate as they draw near,
No human rights to help them here,
The spirit world drawn up to meet these mingers,
With ghastly grins and boney fingers,
Welcome to your resting place.