Lonely together
In orderly terraces
They commune in silence
Strata-titled
Across the discarded slope.
Gravely they ponder the hours
Awaiting visitors who
Arrive in dribbles of conscience
Or just to steal the roses.
Her moss is coating the words
Her lichen has changed
Her middle name
To smith.
His special text
Has succumbed to the decay
Of sixty winters of frost
And is forgotten.
Laying there
Under their bleached stones
A whitewashed memory
Has a name and a life.
They are watching us
Argue with our time
Believing what we do
Is so important.
They can smile
When we forget them
They understand
In a heart beat
We will be them.
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