I also write poetry
Church on a Nice Day
The sky is endless;
cerulean blue.
the lawn smells like sweet grass
and rotted mildew.
Nearby drifts
the whistle of a sparrow,
the steeple bell tolls
with Gregorian sorrow.
Wind rustles through leaves
of overgrown brush
chaotically flickering
with a quiet hush.
A church watches over
an old cemetery;
muted beige stones
wrapped in ivy and berry,
Randomly scattered,
bricks orderly formed;
a cross like the one
your grandmother wore.
Baroque stained windows
with colors gone soft,
are black from daylight
like a sign that’s turned off.
The breeze blows with coolness
but the sun is still warm.
A bee with no stinger
flies with no swarm.
Medieval style thatches
are surrounding the bend,
with pink rose petals
and green thorny stems.
Aged tombstones gather
in uneven rows,
In patches of weed
where sunflower grows.
Be-speckled in sunlight
and draped by trees,
fragments of shadows
are dancing like leaves.
The tombs are erased
but some marks remain,
an oval-shaped border
drawn like a frame.
A human design
etched with human care,
a reminder that something,
at one point, was there.
The rest; grey slabs
with lichen and lyme
eternally eroded
by the waves of time.
From the soil grow trees
with infinite limbs,
donning saggy pined beards
with ancient wisdom.
Branches with pockets
where local birds perch,
The trees are now taller
than the neighboring church.
To your right, nestled in moss,
with the weight of lead,
There’s an unmarked tomb;
a child’s bed.
Fully ensconced
by the arms of an oak,
The branches hover over
like an ancestor’s cloak.
With the cooing of a dove
and squalls of a gull flying,
The birds sound somewhere
between singing and crying.