PARISH REGISTERS

‘These ancient papers, all tattered, torn and mutilated, covered with dirt, defaced and the writing, in many cases illegible… have been trampled under the feet of careless churchwardens, soiled perhaps in their imputed orgies…’

-       John Nowell 1864    

I

‘The following abbreviations have been used:

Bapt for baptisms, nupt for marriages, sepult for burials.’

-       Harry Taylor, The Parish Register of Almondbury, Vol. I, 1974

 1557, November 5

[        ] sepult

Someone, unknown, buried in November.

In the churchyard, probably – 

with Catholic ritual

in those Bloody Mary days.

No stone, no grave. A blank, and that one word, sepult.

As near forgotten as it’s possible to be.

Nights follow days, moons wax and wane – 

Years pass. Around the old church

Where these books are stored, the same

Cycles of rising, falling – buildings, families. Lives

Conceived and nurtured, thrive, and then lost again.

Further away, great matters are afoot – 

A new Queen, Shakespeare writing, ships of Spain 

Shattered on Scots and Irish rocks.

But few here know; along these muddy lanes

The talk’s of births and courting, love and death.

Hopes, expectations too, all with the same result:

These words, the ticking of a clock.

Bapt, nupt, sepult.

Sepult – an end, but a beginning too,

The very first word that you copied down.

II

Godfridus Castle et Sara Armitage nupt…

Johannis f Johannis Greaves de Farnelay bapt…

Johannes Haighe de Stonepitts sepult…

-       Harry Taylor, The Parish Register of Almondbury, Vol. I, 1974

Each line terse, factual – stripped of hope or pain,

Or joy, or love, or sympathy.

The sundering or saving of a life

Reduced to names and places, and to those stark words

In unfamiliar Latin, bitten off short.

A few, a very few, brief stories catch the eye –

Wyllelmus Turnebull, just sixteen,

Weatherbette on the moor, beneath a hedge,

Buried late that day by candlelight,

Remembered here. Just that –

Reasons, grief, suffering lost with bones and blood and grave.

It’s fifty years now since you took your seat,

With cards and pens and patience,

To start the long task you had set yourself – 

That seat, and you too, part of history now.

III

In tackling the register of the parish which he came to regard as his own, Harry Taylor set himself no easy task… Yet any thought of claiming credit for his work would have been contrary to Harry’s quiet, modest nature.

- Anonymous Appreciation, from The Parish Register of Almondbury, Vol III, published posthumously, 1988

I see that first book finished on your desk.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Each line a stitch in a great tapestry

Of lives lived, loved, and lost,

A tribute to the village that you knew – 

And you beside it, thoughtful.

‘You must be very proud,’ I say; you shake your head.

‘Not really.’ There’s a pause.

‘A young man dreams of all the things he’ll do,

The books he’ll write. And this is it,

Other men’s words, just copied down.’

You’re gone too now, so you have the set – 

Birth, marriage, death – laid down so bleakly here.

Like you, these ghosts had dreams, hopes, felt regret,

Perhaps, at falling short. We never get

Quite where we wanted to, the fear

Of failure haunts us all.

But here’s a thing.

Thumb through these pages, hear the sound

Of countless voices whispering in your ear.

Lost and forgotten in the ground,

Their names are all they have; and thanks to you, they’re here.