#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook

The land rises more sharply here, treeless
folding and unfolding fields beyond walls
of grey granite, run to the far cresting
sky. But this pen of graves is pretty, all
neat rows and untrod grass.

............

This pen of graves is pretty. Working from
the granite wall, year on year, the lines move
a little forward. The names morph and smooth
with time, losing strangeness, and profession
to become something more, than less, with God.
These are family plots. Turned three and four times
to fit another in. Or add a war grave
to the foot.

............

A pretty sty of graves,

..........

swim walking like a wagging eel the dog comes
hang and begging, grey and white, blue eyed
death to welcome us.

will it rain today, or chill the grass to ash
white seeds that bend the stalks to brush
the grave of meaning.