Mint grows in the graveyard,
By the mossy stones.
Midnight hounds sit and guard
Their old and broken bones.
Leaves so sweet and cold and green
To put in evening tea.
Dead but not forgotten queens
And kings all watch and see.
I sat amongst the grass and sighed,
Picking mint with those who've died.
Wishing that I'd known you then,
But death had led you to your end.