Those that came before.
Their stoney faces looking ever up
At the grey timeless sky.
Their story of a life that’s past
Almost hidden in the grass
Where nettles thrive
And only the bravest red poppies
Peek their faces out
And beckon.
The rain cries softly,
Interminably.
Centuries have worn away
Some of the story of their day.
A mother who lost five babies,
A husband who died,
Mourning his lady.
The wars they fought,
Some won, some lost.
And as we read, we see the cost.
Perhaps the sky is crying
‘cos we won’t learn from the dying.
Some stones stand tall,
Grand in their day.
Others are simple and small.
They tell the tale of unequal share,
Of lives disparate.
But then Death’s impartial call
Makes all equal in the clay.
And the skies so grey
And heavy with rain
Cry tears for the pain
Of those that came before.
By: Sharon Heaney Stansfield