Dispatch #71
Saint Brigid’s
Saint Brigid’s
Gravestones, nameless
after a century of weather—
shadows stream narrow-limbed over uneven ground. Summer’s first murmur: gnats and honeysuckle cloud the cemetery’s night-green edge— green throbbing and slowly tumbling in. I sit with the stones until silence abides silence. Mercy. How we’re all always turning back into earth.
Loved this poem. On the third read it really grabbed me and relaxed me at the same time and tempo. Thank you Joseph
Nice one. I thought you tumbled out of the womb an imagist, but apparently not. You have other modes.