Easyjets crawled across the sky, into the west wind. I read; in loving memory of. And; what will survive of us is love, love is eternal, here rests for a time.
Perhaps the dead lie happily in the well-tended plots, or perhaps they prefer the forgotten, overgrown corners. Perhaps they prefer their names obliterated by time and the weather. Perhaps not.
There was only the sound of the strong west wind in that place, and I wasn't there for very long before I thought that I should leave.