Cemetery Stone

A jungle of empty white lines.
As my feet cling to the grey concrete, I find my eyes gazing
Towards the poppy field, the flowering lamppost, the sea of ashes.
Endless spray carnations, fixed to a point in time,
A place where each timeline ceased forevermore.
Shifting nervously, my feet find the path to the petal;
It’s is flowering with fresh grieving.
Wives and husbands,
Mothers and fathers,
Sisters and brothers,
Daughters and sons.
Eventually my steps lighten to find
The vast green expanse,
No bigger than his hospital room.
Crouching feels appropriate,
Speaking doesn’t.
No urge have I ever had to speak
Beyond the soil and stone in front of me,
Nor have I ever envisaged an omniscient presence
That can be reached like a takeaway deity.
Bearded ressurectionists or biblical optimists
Bare no sway in this way.
Sitting here feels like resolution,
For myself, for my father, for my mother, and my brother.

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13 thoughts on “Cemetery Stone

  1. Ah, yes. The marks left behind are more than the stone and the neatly clipped grass, don’t you think? And, as seasons pass on to seasons, the stones become rows and rows — and so it goes (ala Billy Joel). Thanks for dropping by and reading Hospice.

  2. sitting here feels like resolution…i hear you man…i just like to walk among them…i find comfort there….a point where the time lines ends…and whatever comes next begins…a bunch of empty white lines…i hear you…

    • Ah thanks Brian. It’s lovely to hear from you again. I have such a torturous few months; all of my inspiration and energy has been sapped. It feels so comforting to return to what I love doing. Hope you’re well man.

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