I was visiting my parents' graves . . .
Whose name is not yet recorded here;
A canopy keeping a faithful vigil
Over mounded dirt that will not grow
To grass again this year when snow
Will settle softly on these scripted hills
And erases for a season what is written.
Only flowers remain to bow their heads:
Who came to witness a death have gone
Now back to their lives, reminded of where
And what awaits them too, but not yet.
For now they can bury too the thought
Of who they have given to this ground
And the sleep that hardens into stone.
If any had listened they heard the creak
Of the coffin lowering into the ground,
A solemn homily and grieving tears;
And had they stayed, the redeeming grace
Of a yellow finch, kneeling now in prayer
In the willow, rising up in a sacred song,
Becoming something holy, something else.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 351 times
Written on 2010-12-21 at 15:27
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Resurrection
A willow above a funeral and intermentWhose name is not yet recorded here;
A canopy keeping a faithful vigil
Over mounded dirt that will not grow
To grass again this year when snow
Will settle softly on these scripted hills
And erases for a season what is written.
Only flowers remain to bow their heads:
Who came to witness a death have gone
Now back to their lives, reminded of where
And what awaits them too, but not yet.
For now they can bury too the thought
Of who they have given to this ground
And the sleep that hardens into stone.
If any had listened they heard the creak
Of the coffin lowering into the ground,
A solemn homily and grieving tears;
And had they stayed, the redeeming grace
Of a yellow finch, kneeling now in prayer
In the willow, rising up in a sacred song,
Becoming something holy, something else.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 351 times
Written on 2010-12-21 at 15:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Lawrence Beck |
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John Ashleigh |
