Dancing seed heads on dry grasses,
that once grew green and lank,
shimmer ’round an unkempt grave
on a windswept coastal bank.
Who stood beside this lonely site
to grieve with sobs and anguished wails,
this spot unmarked by headstone,
yet girt by wrought iron rails?
What heartfelt pain was poured out here
When tears into this soil soaked?
Who’s lain below is now unknown,
this grave with mystery cloaked.
Yet standing near their resting place
with salty breeze a’gusting by,
do I hear a whisper, faintly,
or perhaps a softly sigh?
Is some wistful voice, long silenced,
beseeching me, that I should fly,
to soar above this mundane world,
and not let my days slip by
but to let my joy flow wild and free,
not stop to count the cost,
to revel in just being me,
before this life of mine is lost?
But surely these are just imaginings
as I give my thoughts free roam,
for this silent plot holds nothing
save for moulding mortal bones.
Though leaving this slope, so serene,
I feel my senses rest at ease
and thankful to have paused a while,
near this grave site by the sea.
© Pete Stratford 1.10.11
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