At Bunhill Fields By late morning  I could hear the screams of children at play under a flourishing sky of navigable blue. Before Blake's headstone a discarded daffodil dying near the green railings safeguarded from the roadworks and blown litter by the corporation. Here witnesses gathered for a funeral as a fifteen year old girl was laid to rest, the surviving trees and the forgotten graves listened for the steps on dry paving stones, the high-rise sunshine on the faces of flats and offices, the occupied fingers of stone which point towards the growth of an unsettled eternity. Byron Beynon   If you have any comments on this poem, Byron Beynon would like to hear from you.