Walking in the Graveyard…

Here in silence a grave strewn with

crumbling flowers once hanging from

a wreath; a nearby brook leaps and

falls, the Wood Thrush sings, the

Whippoorwill calls, with no marker of

who lies beneath.

With a Willow tree covered with creeping

vine called Crown of Rose, all swaying

back and forth over the water as the wind

blows, who knows how they are dressed,

is it a King, peasant child who ran the

meadows wild, no one is here to grieve or

attest.

No mournful crowd, no black funeral shrouds,

were there pious farewells said, did family weep,

after death is there a wait, do we wake at the

“Pearly Gates”, alas, no doubt, someone’s

dead.

All that can be confessed, death can make a

great life less, wreaths may fade and flowers

wane, but good deeds left behind will remain, a

storm in the coming winds, soon the sun will go

down, yet it will be forever tranquil there below

the ground.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

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