Those That Came Before By: Sharon Heaney Stansfield

They lie there in the Yorkshire moores,
 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