Ghosts Without Graves
The grave stands at the crest of the ridge,
a Celtic remembrance of a life long past.
The grave is untended and the stone is worn.
The name, carved in Old English, is barely readable.
There is no evidence anyone alive remembers
the body laid to rest here. His story is lost.
This is history. The true nature of it all.
monuments are left. Lives are lost.
A good thing at times.
There are parts of my own life I would prefer lost,
but they stay with me,
ghosts without graves,
They whisper and sing
and only I can hear.
About this poem.
I was feeling uninspired and untroubled this morning, so I picked a random image and wrote to it. The picture was taken in a graveyard just outside nearby Salem, NY.