August 25, 2015

Patchwork


My father lies
in a north-facing hill,
fresh-dug earth
on patchwork ground,
name and numbers
cut deep in stone,
I'd left him here,
so long ago.
But now his marker's
been cut again,
my stepmother's name
below his own,
only the wind
makes any sound.
After thirty long years
she sleeps within.
I can't help wonder
if he knows she's here,
with empty plots
just down the hill,
a more scenic spot
awaits her still.