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#everythigoldisnewagain
They rarely bother to mow here anymore, Once a month, perhaps every other (Times are tight, full burials being pretty much A thing of the past these days) Though it’s unlikely anyone would notice If the grass grew a bit longish, Or the crownvetch and crabgrass became a little more prevalent, No one being buried in this part of the cemetery For the better part of a hundred years now, The stones bleached and faded from decades of sleet and sunlight And acid rain from the auto plants of Flint and Lorain and South Bend, (Now boneyards for gears and drill bits themselves) Those names still legible on the teetering, unsteady stones Mostly the stolid Scotch-Irish surnames Vaguely familiar from the town’s founding generation Found on its street signs or pocket-parks, Their descendants mostly having fled to friendlier climes, Though the odd lesser strain of the families remain (Not that they would choose to pay tribute to those ancestors To whom they have fared so poorly in comparison) Though many more bear the family names of their trades, Clusters of Coopers, Weavers, and Smiths, Their stones bearing the sentiments of grim Victorian fatalism, Thus in mercy early call’d away or The happy soul is that which fled. Such thoughts are quaint, eccentric things to us now, As would be the clothes they wore, the songs they sung, But we would know them nonetheless, Know the muted joy of their minor successes, The depth and finality of their defeats, The sting of bowing and scraping To the owners of the mill, the haughty town fathers, As they served them at the milliners or the drug store, Their odd, fleeting dreams of grandeur having come to rest here, Cherry-lidded as they proceed to dust.
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May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
wk-kortas
The Old Section Of The Cemetery On Bootjack Hill
They rarely bother to mow here anymore, Once a month, perhaps every other (Times are tight, full burials being pretty much A thing of the past these days) Though it’s unlikely anyone would notice If the grass grew a bit longish, Or the crownvetch and crabgrass became a little more prevalent, No one being buried in this part of the cemetery For the better part of a hundred years now, The stones bleached and faded from decades of sleet and sunlight And acid rain from the auto plants of Flint and Lorain and South Bend, (Now boneyards for gears and drill bits themselves) Those names still legible on the teetering, unsteady stones Mostly the stolid Scotch-Irish surnames Vaguely familiar from the town’s founding generation Found on its street signs or pocket-parks, Their descendants mostly having fled to friendlier climes, Though the odd lesser strain of the families remain (Not that they would choose to pay tribute to those ancestors To whom they have fared so poorly in comparison) Though many more bear the family names of their trades, Clusters of Coopers, Weavers, and Smiths, Their stones bearing the sentiments of grim Victorian fatalism, Thus in mercy early call’d away or The happy soul is that which fled. Such thoughts are quaint, eccentric things to us now, As would be the clothes they wore, the songs they sung, But we would know them nonetheless, Know the muted joy of their minor successes, The depth and finality of their defeats, The sting of bowing and scraping To the owners of the mill, the haughty town fathers, As they served them at the milliners or the drug store, Their odd, fleeting dreams of grandeur having come to rest here, Cherry-lidded as they proceed to dust.
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