there is a place by the sea
where unburdened timbers jut from the ground
in neat little rows;
blades of grass in a field of stone.
monuments of mothers, fathers, children, stand
all weathered by the salt and wind
and laced with wild roses.

silence, here, is holy,
broken only by the waves that wash the shore
and spray the air,
and fill the space with echoes.
gliding softly over all, from hill to hill
and back again, like all those happy voices did
so long ago, when I was young.