(A true story)
Now i grow older, and beauteous memories turn to weeds,
this blood in my veins turn to water, like a river cold desolute
in the valley bleeds. Yet still on the hill rise i see
"Aunt Mary" Her hair more golden by the day, when my memory returns
and i think of september, and how she succumb like the freshness
of new mowed hay, her passing beautiful and she would have approved.
Alas here in "Back Beck Cemetery" In december the rushing waters
hum a hollow song, the wailing tune of midwinter,
to an unconcerned yet obedient audience.
the chilled musty air
agonize the aging stone...
deep waters rush by.
The tombstones glisten in the pale unloving sunlight,
my spade and i rendezvous there five and half days a week,
just to dig a little for the human race, just to carefully lay some of them here,
some holding on to their earthly hand me down attributes, some rightly earned,
others a relief from the eroding sentiment of life.
Oh! Then there are the infirmed, and the joy of knowing I,
here in this their final resting place, knowing this their very last winter of discontent!