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...In A GraveYard Of Those Who Died Long Ago
Closer to the road, the ancient graves
crumble under the weight of time.
Words of love, loss, hope and despair
scattered amongst the un cut grass.
Stone crosses severed and chipped
softened by the damp moss
Sway with unoticed fragility,
Tis not the place for repair.
There are no visitors here anymore,
just observers. They look and shudder-
To remain in a lonely spot, to be concealed
by weeds, to fade into the past.
There are heroes here, half named strangers
visited only by the rains.
Vincent James Turner
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