~ Non-Norse Poetry by Others ~
Digging a Grave
Without Pay
From where I stand among the stones,
I see the church half down the hill,
The soft grey snow, the goosedown snow,
The narrow road, and all is still.
So still the clapboard steeple's bell
Could no more ring, or car could pass
Than if this little round of earth
Were in a snowstorm globe of glass.
This grave is for a woman who
I did not know except by name,
But debts of blood and friendship reach
Through generations with their claim.
Besides, someday when I am earthed,
This act of filial piety
May be remembered by the shades
Who flock around to welcome me.
For here are more who bear my name
Than I could meet atop the land,
And we must share this hillside when
The stones above have worn to sand.
© Jack Hart
Ship of Fools - Jack Hart´s Poetry Magazine. Submissions welcome.
Image:
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