Silent Sings The Crow At Final Light

Silent Sing The Crows at Final Light

There stands a hill like many hills that stand in
shade and light. It stands with rows of grass and
stones recalling names of those who fought and
fell in wars whose independence fades in numbered
similarity.

A place of flesh which mortifies. A place where
few will come. A place of many endings where
stands a man remembering his past.

The old man sat so lonely upon a settled stump.
Crumbled on its edges it served as mute testimony
of what had stood before the cabins came and filled
the open fields. They grayed together, stump and man,
sharing of the summer shade and holding down the
corners of the world.

In the boy’s eye the hair which downy fell upon
his aged pate became a halo shining in the
speckled light the last surviving tree let down.
It was a shining which—even now—the boy
could never say was not an inner clarity shining forth.

A spotted hand pinched the beard which grew in
grizzled confusion upon his chin. A chin which
knew not of beards in years gone past before the
hand grew too enfeebled for the blade.

There was a sound, moist and subtle, which framed the steaming
stench which issued from his pipe. A pipe which
ancient teeth, yellowed but firm, held in practiced clench.

The old man sought in the welcome of a smile to bestow
a blessing upon the boy, a child of children once removed.
Emboldened by the fond gentleness, the boy climbed the
ragged folds to a lap which held him in quiet embrasure
and spoke of safety.

These the man remembers. These he says are foremost in
a mind grown older with an adult wisdom both spurious
and proud. These are still what speaks in admiration for
what the generations passed down. The man has soaked
them into his growth.

The boy now grown sits by the stone which serves as
mute testimony of the man who stood before the stones
came and filled the field. The child now grown calls
to his own and mourns that part he never knew. The
absence leaves a hole wherein the demons of his night
come to taunt him.

Here/Now acceptance of farewell is
voiced. A silent finality chants what is written on the
stone. As peaceful grows the grass that knows the man:
Deep in weather-watch stand the stone.

~Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner~

In honor of Veteran's Day, I post a poem written at Golden Gate National Cemetary...