For some reason,
I walk softly on this ground
Expecting perhaps to be chided
if I make an unwelcome sound
Among stone sentinels in scattered rows
beside a clear stream that perpetually flows
are markers with names both common and bold
for mourners and the curious all to behold
Some come to release dammed up tears
others to tease their deepest fears
Some like I tread so lightly they leave no tracks
but others come bearing burdens like heavy sacks
I read the dates and do the simple math
and create my own tales of each soul’s path
Some lived eighty, some lived less
and others carved numbers seemed to confess
that the trail they walked was likely brief
and with each breath they exhaled cold hard grief
But my stories are surely not real
and my reveries can hardly conceal
what I conjure up among these standing stones
and the crumbling and hidden sacred bones
are tales that mask the shivering thought
that soon I will rest in a similar plot
For some reason,
I walk softy on this holy soil
and in some coming season
I will finish my toil
And lie near this same clear stream
and begin my own blank eternal dream
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
For some reason,
I walk softly on this ground
Expecting perhaps to be chided
if I make an unwelcome sound
Among stone sentinels in scattered rows
beside a clear stream that perpetually flows
are markers with names both common and bold
for mourners and the curious all to behold
Some come to release dammed up tears
others to tease their deepest fears
Some like I tread so lightly they leave no tracks
but others come bearing burdens like heavy sacks
I read the dates and do the simple math
and create my own tales of each soul’s path
Some lived eighty, some lived less
and others carved numbers seemed to confess
that the trail they walked was likely brief
and with each breath they exhaled cold hard grief
But my stories are surely not real
and my reveries can hardly conceal
what I conjure up among these standing stones
and the crumbling and hidden sacred bones
are tales that mask the shivering thought
that soon I will rest in a similar plot
For some reason,
I walk softy on this holy soil
and in some coming season
I will finish my toil
And lie near this same clear stream
and begin my own blank eternal dream
This was probably inspired by Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" although I had not read the poem in more than thirty years when I wrote this one
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