In the graveyard kneel so many mourning, wailing widows and widowers - weak-kneed and hanging off tombstones.
Carved of marble or cast of bronze, and meant to last an eon.
How odd to imagine a permanent mourner.
In the time marble can be carved, I'd prefer any subject on my gravestone to be captured leaning back in a boisterous belly-laugh with a beer can in hand.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged graveyard, Mourner, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
