The Local Grave Digger Laments Again

(A True Story) Now I grow older, and beauteous memories turn to weeds, this blood in my veins turn to water, like the shivering river cold desolate 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 a half days a week, just to dig a little for the human race, and carefully lay 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 those of an infirm foundation, with the joy of knowing I, wait in this their final resting place, for them no more winters of discontent! brothers and sisters to the closed gate of heaven… life on earth the key © Harry J Horsman 2019