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Paddington’s Old Cemetery

In Kalgoorlie’s north, away out in the scrub
Where nobody’s shoulders you’re likely to rub
On an old winding track one scarcely could see
Well hidden by bush is an old cemetery.

And those lonely old graves with headstones of white
Would appear to be ghosts should you pass by at night.
Here graves are not marked; some could be found
By a rise in the earth indicating a mound.

And natures at work; soon time will erase
All signs of some loved ones last resting place.
Such places as this are seldom now seen,
Untainted by man, unsullied and clean.

There was no litter here of the carton or can,
The mark of the vandal and modern day man.
Yet there’s plenty of proof of visitors, too;
The birds, and the emu, the old kangaroo.

So in silence I stood in respect for it all,
The bush was so quiet, you could hear a leaf fall;
I thought the ground sacred where on I had trod
And the spirits were holding communion with God.

By the grave of a child I remember the day
I saw my own mother kneeling to pray
At the grave of my brother and her infant son.
Then sadly I said, “Here God will be done”.

Then quietly I left there, my spirits were down.
Was I close to the ghosts of a ghost mining town?
And I thought to myself driving back through the trees
There are many ghost towns with old cemeteries.

With lonely old graves where departed souls sleep,
Where a merciful god a vigil must keep
Till the trumpet is heard on that final last day
Let us never disturb them, just leave them that way.

                                                                By William J McCudden