On Visiting the Graveyard

In this time of suspended season
A spring filled with hesitation
Shivering beneath the cold
Winds that will not warm
Tree branches still bare with
Leaves afraid to unfurl
Bear a silent witness
This Holy Week
Hope is on hold for now.

Up into the gray woods
The babble of brooks unheard
The birds sparse in the trees
Creation bent beneath
The weight of waiting
We visit the tombs
Walking the winding paths
Surrounded by so many names
We know.

Even in death
People congregate together
By religion
Nationality
The common fate of soldiers
The lodges and clubs
A general mix together as
On a summer street.
Does this make for better neighbours
Can one rest more peacefully
Be protected from the unknown
By these associations of
The posted past
Or will the trumpet blast
Send souls scurrying
In all directions
On that fateful judgement day?
But I digress.

So many friends sleep here
Beneath these grass clad slopes
I am overwhelmed by
Their sheer number
How time has slipped by
These souls departed
Resting within us
In tears we pass
Slowly between these graves
Some modest
Others demanding
A skyline of their own.

As we leave the cemetery
A small procession of cars
Their lights blinking
Slowly approaching the gates
Led by the mourner's black van
The driver on the phone
Is he communing with the dead?
Or just the other talking drivers
Alas, there are no voices
In that silent world
Along those wooded paths
Only a heart once known
Can speak
To the heart that is left waiting.