The Moth Diaries, Poetry
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Poem 55- Graveside
there is a graveyard at the edge of the village,
beneath the tall willow trees and strong oaks.
once it must have been empty, so very few stones-
but today it is full of heavy coffins,
damp with age and soft with mud.
silently the lone figure wanders towards the burrial mound,
he leans gently over, tenderly
it must have been someone he knew, someone he loved.
and yet, no birds sing, no animal stirs
as he burries the love, the world stands still
the world looks away, no one offers compassion to him.
who was she, who was he, and why was the bond so strong,
because he weeps dearly- holding his head in his hands.
then presses them deep into the freshly dug earth,
pulling them away coverd with brown smears
pulling them away with dead leaf skeletons attatached.
he searches the sky with passionate eyes,
his lined face etched with liquid channels.
the grave is too new for a head stone,
but they lean passivly against the church side
calling out to be eroded by the chisels hands.
so a static wind blows east, drawing up the shivering frost,
sending it swirling through hollow graves.
and still the man sits, begging at his tomb.
i glanced down at my hands,
and saw them calloused and rough, edges torn and bitter.
i understand- i speak the similar language,
noticed as they gasped and lept out to my face,
touching, reasuring myself.
and still i watch him, a shadow now, delt by my hands.
© Lucy Griffin May05