Thoughts of the Past

Thoughts spinning...and weaving.

Thoughts of the Past

 

Sitting on the low stone wall

Looking at the cemetery before me

The rising sun

Flows through the bordering oak trees

Shining on the graves as

Slow moving disks of colored light

Radiate among them with gentle twists of air

Coming in from the Northern shores

It brushes the leaves and causes them to turn up

Birds land on the tops of the granite headstones

With a canopy of chirps and the cedars

Drop their unwanted bounty

To the ground before them

In the shade

Shadows move to the back

Fences, where the

Small markers there are blurry to my eyes.

However, I'm not superstitious or gullible

About the stories told during the morning coffee hour,

Even though some voices sound out of place now, and

Many residents are skeptical and it keeps them

away at nightfall.

They come over the ridge at sunrise

To visit their dead relatives instead,

Entering from the oak-lined lane on the west

Where the sea makes the silence more

Unique with its calm whisper through the trees

And the village people like to remember

Their lost fishermen with waters lingering

On the hem of the decorated yard,

I often think of the pirates when I come in

From that side,

The back loop is low and it feels haunted with

Their unrestingly dark tainted souls,

Clusters of kin are lined up across the grasses

As friends and strangers walk the paths in between

As one lonely man tends to the weeding daily

Yet, I know it is his assigned task,

I think about his conviction as I gaze at his bent form,

Precious farmland on the east side

Carries a hope for many as they visit,

Memories of lost family members melt together,

 and some belong only here,

vaulted tombs with brick paths are scattered

here and there,

the circle of the sun kissing the horizon

as the husks of corn tattle in the breezes,

A cylinder footstone near me catches my thoughts

as I brush back my hair and take in the waves of

humped shadows making me think of loud cannons

and guns with marching soldiers once in those

same fields that echo now with the other familiar sounds,

Was there something to love when some of these men

returned long ago,

like a home cooked meal or a woman that was dear to

them,

I can't imagine their pain and suffering or what was gone

Upon their arrival,

Alone in the graveyard brings on so many thoughts of the

Past. --J. E. Cook ©2017

  

 

Author's Note

Thank you for reading my work!