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On Friday, cars were parked along the road.
The next day saw their silent numbers swell,
Drawn there as if they’d heard the black bird’d crowed,
Pulled by the pealing of a solemn bell.
That Sunday was the same, but Monday more.
They filled the drive, parked curb-side by the house.
The street was narrowed by that swelling shore
Which forced a car to creep by like a mouse.
By then, I knew what I had not been told,
The dreadful news for family and friend –
That Winter’s wind had blown, and growing cold
Was some soul who’d been sick but could not mend.
Days later, I passed by; the cars were gone.
The mystery was solved for I could see
The novice widow walking on her lawn
With only her small dog as company.
He’d built my house and now he is no more.
My house still stands; ‘tis he in disrepair.
We mortals, not the mortar, go before.
We each will leave our all to Earth, our heir.
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photo by Guenter M. Kirchweger at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/omDmxpC/raven
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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.
The Bard on the Hill 