The Grave

Charles' grave, this April overgrown with spring flowers. I was reminded of Thomas Hardy's poem 'Voices From Things Growing in a Churchyard':

These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,
Sir or Madam,
A little girl here sepultured.
Once I flit-fluttered like a bird
Above the grass, as now I wave
In daisy shapes above my grave,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

Although I have visited Charles' last resting place on numerous occasions, I always feel surprised a the luminosity of the stone. It shone in the morning sunlight like a beacon.