Spring in a Country Graveyard

Even as the ancient patterns

Chiselled into rock remind us always

Of the end to every song,

The vast cacophonies of life

Ignore the dirge and drown it out

With every twitch of leaf and crash of bird.

The hot-faced child with fists on ears

Hops foot to foot and caterwauls,

'I CAN'T HEAR YOU!' into the face of death;

And barricades the finities

Asserted by the elder, who knows better

Than to bite and disagree,

Accepting that the child will learn

In time and cruel time again

That every dancing breath abbreviates.

And every slab of wintry slate

That leans up crooked from the roots

Among the rubber worms and velvet moles

Whispers soft, 'I am a stranger

In a silent land of strangers

Who can only live to wait, and wait to live.'