Friday, February 01, 2008

Another crowd.

Another crowd.

On the terrace, exposed,
spectator stones watch and wait.
Scarred and crumbled, leaning tired or tumbled,
they observe today with yesterday’s eyes.
Mini monoliths, huddled and spread,
silently decaying
like the sleepers
they once heralded,
are in return, watched.

Today’s eyes scan yesterday’s epitaphs.
Inscribed words blur and chaff
as time, with relentless fingers,
scours and secretes.
Deeds and praises
ghosted remnants of proud proclamations
return to their dust.
But eyes still scrutinise and search,
enjoy the game,
guess the endings.

Watcher is watched
by those whose heart
is not of stone.

2 comments:

Cami said...

I love cemetaries, the older the better, to "guess the endings." And "watched by those whose heart is not of stone" I always think about this...the "great cloud of witnesses." *sigh* This is beautiful.

Francine said...

Keith ... sometimes I don't know which is more poignant ... your photos or your words. God has truly gifted you, my friend. I love old cemetaries.