Late in the afternoon
Near winter’s early dark
I walk with the Dead
At Buttonwood Park
Behind these iron gates
There’s no gossiping here
Secrets are whispered
In each grave plot’s ear
All listen patiently
Without a spoken word
Gracious stone-faced crowd
No judgement is heard
I know every name
They know more of me
With one exception
When my end shall be
I think of tomorrow
Doubting heaven’s glory
Ponder two dates that
Bookend one’s story
LOST in the middle of
Self-written history
The antagonist
No nobility
Three geese fly overhead
Triangle trinity
Pater Filius
Spiritus Sancti
Sounds like that rusty swing
Their honking in the sky
When I remember
I break down and cry
Higher, daddy, higher
Two ghost girls are yelling
Then suddenly gone
At town clock knelling
Inside a sycamore
Protected from the wind
Match to their candles
Prayers are lit again
Flames flicker like my faith
Over coffin-length sod
Little babies sleep
Where oh where is God?
_________
Andrew Dabar
Andrew Dabar 
This strikes a chord with me, probably because I am much, much closer to the end of my life than the beginning. Where oh where, has time gone…?
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Yes. I know exactly what you mean! The hand of the clock is moving fast as a game spinner.
A walk in the graveyard is strangely therapeutic in the later hours–in the winter of a year as well as one’s life.
p.s. Thanks for reading!
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My pleasure reading!
I visit my parents’ graves from time to time. The cemetery where they are buried holds a lot of my relatives, dating back to the early 1800s, and I feel a sense of connection and calmness as I wind my way through the headstones. Therapeutic for sure.
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Where the hell have you been?
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Everywhere and nowhere.
Merry Christmas, old sport.
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