Echoes of the Past


Echoes of the Past

The grass is damp,

between my toes,

I pull my woolen cape tighter

around my neck to ward off

the midnight chill,

that crawls on misty fingers

over the old wooden bridge

under the black wrought iron gate

that guards the entrance

to the resting place

of many of my people

towards me to engulf me.

I can not read the names

on the old crumbing marble markers,

that many years ago were sharp and new.

The chill has caused my eyes

to tear in defense-

or is it a memory drawing me back

to a distant time or place

to receive a message.

I need to hear?

Even with the damp mossy undergrowth,

the dense fog and the chill night air,

I feel a sense of peace

of belonging in this place,

the realm of the sleeping.

Echoes of the past

spirits in a mist dark sinister thoughts swirling around me and the stones. Tell stories

Copyright Jeanne Brickman

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