Misty mornings and dew-filled
lands cover the scene of an
old cemetary. Headstones and
hedges mixed together speak
of many mornings like this.

Creeping vines and oak trees
give sanction to this place
of final rest and solitude.
The morning sun doesn't
penetrate it's calming sight.

Like specters of old, the
mist swirls in streams and
eddies, smoke visages of
the people that once were
that now reside forever.

Sounds echo softly of chirping
birds as they nestle in the
branches of an ancient oak
that has seen the comings
of Man and his passing.

Fading into the dew are
the markings of friends
and family, of old loves
and hatreds now long
lost and finally forgotten.

Nothing on the stones but
and name and two dates,
the dash between being
what happened in bewteen,
something we call life.

With its' own ghostly
light, the old cemetary
brings back the sembalance
of life, the mist playing
with the life of the grave.

Pebbled paths stroll along
making sure that anyone
walking can see all, as
critters populate the
resting place with their life.

Even in the most final
of places, people come
to remember what was,
to remember love, life,
and their own mortality.

01/04/2005

Posted on 01/05/2005
Copyright © 2024 Jersey D Gibson