A wobble in the cemetery of the world

Hampstead Cemetery is a haven of peace and calm amidst the crushing weight of the city. I like the old parts, where the gravestones are looming slabs of grey and worn down crosses all but buried under mounds of ivy. Some look more pagan; Celtic crosses or stones which seem to have faces peering out from them. They put me in mind of the Terracotta Army, there's a feeling of potential about them, as if they've been there untouched for so long that they might decide at any moment to rise and march out into London. I want to wade into the undergrowth, though there are no paths, and brush the foliage back to read the inscriptions, but something always holds me back. I don't think I'm afraid of graveyards any more, I just feel like it's sacred ground.

I always like to read a few of the stones, and imagine what these people's lives were like, how they died, who grieved for them.

There's already some snowdrops on one of the graves. I wonder if they were planted there, or if they are wild. One of the marble angels has fallen off its plinth, and is lying on top of the grave itself, as if to be as close to the occupant as possible. The squirrels are looking sleek and plump, though I always forget to bring them any food.

Today I saw a girl, a bit younger than me, walking slowly along and daydreaming too. We smiled at each other.