There are few feet left to tread this way –
Just a handful of wanderers who wear down the path;
The tangled weeds are thick with fallen leaves,
And the long grass is dewy between crumbling headstones;
This place is ever filled with mysterious light –
It is an old, old graveyard; so old it basks in years of memories,
Memories near forgotten, by all save this precious place,
Hemmed in by mighty walls of maple and oak; crimson leaves that shield from prying eyes.
There is no sombreness of death here, only the unmistakable phantom of a past
That disappears year by year, buried deep beneath moss and eroding stone.
~ Ilana Reimer