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~

A repeat for those who missed this the first time