Empty Tombs

by William Dunford

This could have been a day for withering

The dry grass under our feet

Still smelling of Halloween blown in the wind

Long past frozen now in the November chill

Rows solemn row after row

Of white crosses

Lines crooked line after line

Of bleached markers set up in the settling earth

And we walk delicately, carefully to avoid the graves

But we end up jumping over and skipping between

Dancing

Alive at the wet stroke of a low-hanging leaf

Or the sudden dart of a field mouse

We run through gardens

climb over olive trees then up past

Empty tombs

Photo by Stuart Grigg