The gravestones in this place are wet with tears
Of children, wives and husbands who have stood
Beside dark holes that swallow up their fears
Replacing ice water where once flowed blood.
November skies are grey and hold no lights,
The flowers flattened in a winter gale
That whips away dark thoughts the widow fights
To keep hidden behind her mourning veil.
The winter storm washes away the sins
Of those who stand here slowly getting wet
And afterwards sink one too may gins
As they try to reconcile and forget
The brevity of life and how it ends
For all of us - remembered by our friends.
picture by Richard Nixon (Rich Pics)