Memory Stones

Memory Stones
James Collymore


I walked down the peaceful garden,
Feeling the time move,
Like sand through my fingers.
I saw the ancient names and dates of long-gone people,
From the elaborate, dark, above ground caskets of the previously wealthy
To the simple cross, made from two branches off a tree,
The last remnant of a life just rich enough to get a hole in the ground.

I walked along the path by the church,
I saw the lives of others, ancient and new,
Some loved and missed, and some, simply…
Forgotten.
Graves that were once promised flowers and mourners for eternity,
Forgotten.
Their life,
their story,
The whole world inside that brain,
Everything they’ve seen,
Felt,
Done,
Their loves,
Their hates, all forgotten…
All gone…

I walked through the garden,
Green with overgrown grass and moss-covered rocks,
The harmony of the church seeping out into the old, old stones of memory.
The silence of solitude,
A land, where I can share my thoughts with me,
Where I can explore,
Not the outside world,
But the far greater land in my own head.

I walked along the graves,
The memory stones,
With old names sleeping and old bones resting.
Few living folk are ever in the graveyard;
For I alone would mix with the dead,
Mix with the dead, amongst the shadows of life,
The passed away people – nobody but me.

I walk along the graveyard,
Filled with a wonder,
For the overwhelming sense of peace.
I close my eyes and feel the sleep of the dead,
Pass over me, ridding me of fears and stress.
At last, I’ve discovered heaven,
And the dead have taken me there.