Emma

A light rain falling,

on the grassy hill,

amongst the gray stones,

marking those who lay there.

We walk silently between,

reading the words,

names and dates,

some long forgotten.

Searching we find the one,

sitting there alone,

the stone green from moss,

the words hard to read,

worn down by time.

In simple terms,

“Emma.

Wife of Edwin Lomas,

who fell asleep,

March 23, 1889,

Aged 44 years.”

I touch the stone,

cold, damp, wondering.

Does she know we’re there?

I gently brush grass away,

something in that, 

simple gesture,

brings me closer.

We are connected,

through time,

the mystery that links

the living with the dead.

Looking at the stone, 

I look into my future,

immovable and gray.

Will someone, someday,

brush the grass away,

remembering what I wrote?

Will my poems touch another,

or just whither away?

Dry, empty phrases,

fluttering on the wind.

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