Bury me in my old hay meadow,

Way up in the hills, clear skies, bright stars and sunsets that mellow,
Where sheep will continue to graze above me,
I'll welcome any faith, religion or belief, whatever it may be,
Away from the grime of modern day life,
Simply, down a quiet country lane no hustle, no strife. 

 

Bury me in my old hay meadow and let the hay grow tall, 
Don’t bury me in a formal plot, with old bone dust, surrounded by a wall, 
No headstone that needs cleaning, 
No grave that needs attending, 
No mower weekly over me, 
No burden to my loved ones will I be.

 

Bury me in my old hay meadow no fuss, no fancy frills, 
Just leave me be amidst these wild Welsh hills, 
Skylarks, curlews and yellow wagtails, nesting amongst the wild flowers before the hay is cut, 
Keep this hedgehog haven that greed and pollution forgot,
Hedges full of budding leaves, berries and birds, 
At night time, owls and foxes exchanging their own words.

 

Bury me in my old hay meadow where new born lambs love to play, 
Spring bulbs will emerge to brighten dull days, no plastic flowers to fade away,  
An array of wild flowers, now a rarer sight to see,
Will fill my meadow with sounds of busy bees, butterflies, buzzing insects over me, 
Through my fields Glas Brook will carry on dashing,
Where otters, kingfishers, heron and wild ducks are splashing.

 

So bury me in my old hay meadow,
Close to where my dear ones used to be,
Then put me in a simple box, that will never cause any harm, 
Place me in this beauty spot that once was my own farm, 
Then I can look up at this valley, the hills I loved to roam, 
And lie feeling so happy, to have had this beautiful home.

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Sarah Christine Vale, Busnant Farm, 2016