10 of 73

by Colin Ward

Freshly turned, crumbling sod,
now marks this solemn spot.
Sodden soil, an open wound,
that only time, can soothe.

Muddy footprints, by his deathly side,
sunk as deep, as they are wide.
Standing in the sodden grass,
dressed in black, they bade their last.

Duvet of flowers, a scented heap,
covers a soul, in endless sleep.
Stooping low, they laid them down,
heads bowed low, and not a sound.

And in the evening, came the rain,
to soak the earth, and hide the pain.
Quiet and alone, a life now done,
While all around, it still goes on.

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Poetry: Dying

by Colin Ward

Poetry: Dying

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