Country diary: The myriad sounds of a cemetery in the rain
In the cemetery everything is yellow: the carpet of leaves on the ground, mirrored by those still clinging to trees. Plastic flowers laid on gravestones, new graffiti on the wall. It's raining, and there's a serenity here that's often hard to find in the city. Just outside, cars and buses rumble, children play football, a train rolls by. But in the cemetery everything is quiet: whether muted by rain, dead or dying, waiting out its chance for rebirth.
I stand beneath trees so I may learn how they sound when rain hits their leaves. Under the sycamore the rain drums; under the elm it patters. Rain on beech leaves sounds somewhere in between, while the yew makes no noise at all. I am all alone in this gentle pursuit, and am grateful no one is watching.
As I brush leaves off the gravestones to read their inscriptions, springtails propel themselves back into darkness. There are some recent stones here but, in a forgotten corner I stand among Edmunds and Marys, Johns and Elizabeths. The oldest inscription I can read dates back to 1875, but there are others that are impossible to make out, worn down by 150 years of weather.
I spot a jay drinking water from a long-forgotten grave pot. I count a mischief of seven magpies, a volery of long-tailed tits. Among the gravestones are desire paths made by foxes, leading to passageways beneath fences – portals into unknown gardens. I wonder if there are badgers here. There are holes in trees to check in spring for nesting birds, piles of grass clippings and leaves where a hedgehog might make a nest.
In the city proper, the starlings have begun to murmurate, the adults teaching the nervous chicks how to swoop into the bowels of Brighton Pier. Pied wagtails roost in two trees on the busiest road. If we looked up we might see the last of the migrating birds heading south for winter. If we listened at night we might hear the tseep tseep of redwings above the clatter of traffic.
But I hunker down in the cemetery, where magpies, jays, foxes and springtails rub shoulders with the dead, where you can hear rain landing on trees, where the yellow of the graffiti matches the yellow of the leaves.
Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian's Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
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