Monday Poem: Headstones

Headstones

The headstone fallen, broken and then lost
In high forgotten grass, the brighter weeds
Where only busy insects and the occasional fox
Wanders by. There is only distant birdsong
And the sudden flash of butterfly wings.

Even the body is long gone, bare bones
Only the bones, the dry bones in clean earth.

Who knows the right spell to cast, to tell
The lost story of how these bones lived,
And this is how she once danced all night
A teenager in her first white ballgown.
And here is the old woman clutching
A frightening bible to her faded breast
Waiting for that final knock
On the half-closed door of her heart.

Should we remember them all?
Recite the ancient names around a fire?
Tell stories to keep the night away?

Tell stories; all we can do is tell stories
And hope to remember all the names.

 

First published in Interpoetry issue 15
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