The Latter Date
A mourner walks among the stones
That mark where loved ones lie –
At least their bodies – empty shells
They no more occupy.
He makes occas’nal pilgrimage
To this quiet meeting place,
Where only wind dares make a sound,
As leaves blow o’er its face.
He stands; he stares; he stoops beside
The plot, and there he lays
Small token of lamenting love,
Heart-broken death bouquets.
He gazes on the lettering,
Life written as a dash,
And rues the latter date he sees;
Upon his heart a gash.
His hands reach down to touch the stone,
Words that are written there;
His fingers softly trace the name,
As if a cheek that’s fair.
He stands at last, surveys the scene;
Looks down once more and sighs;
He toes the dirt; kicks, wistful, twice –
There’s nothing but goodbyes,
What draws him here where nothing dwells
What links him to this place?
The dash is in his memory
And in the grave – the trace.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.
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