Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Stonecrop Runes

It is an odd thing,
this sudden constriction of the throat
and sometimes tears.

Like an arrow out of the dark and years,
the careful transcribed inscriptions
strike out the alphabet.

And you are there again
in some lonely rural cemetery
bending with in the wind-bent grass
brushing at the bleached
and lichened limestone,
reading the simple stones,
while the sky and clouds rush past.

Letting your fingers remember
the far and foreign geography.
Letting them remember
the names.

Lieut. George Paget Owen Fenwick,
youngest son
killed in action
Oct, 1917

That swamp with the lovely name.

Pte. D L Hutchins
killed in action
March 1945
Hackwald Forest, Germany.

Dark the woods that day.

Just objective research on-line
but you hear the guns on the wind.


jason evans said...

What a great sense of "hush" in that piece! Really evoked the moment for me.

Bernita said...

Like your photos do, Jason? When the crickets and the cicadas cease?
It was your cemetery posts that brought it to mind.
Thank you.

Bonnie Calhoun said...

I used to do rubbings in an old cemetary in my home town. this brought that period of time to mind!