At Highgate Cemetery stand the Angels of stone
Guarding beneath bare feet buried ash and bone
A person’s last cling to their given name sake
Chiseled out of marble or rock a claim to stake
Row upon row of tombs, crypts and graves
Highgate Angels so cold weathered with age
Even the grandest Angels sometimes fall
As the ground below swallows to pull
The dead like sardines in graveyard packed
Aristocratic or peasant the end exact
A neighborhood of past distant faded tunes
Angels prey and count the turns of the Moon
Out of an eternity were sculptured and cast
Crumble they will eventually not to last
Longer than our generations of queues waiting to park
Flightless wings maybe, but created from an artists heart
Hope in praying hands comfort from angelic face
To see loved ones in the afterlife a saving grace
Source