Cemetey road

Cemetery road

Walking through thechrysanthemum's icy blows.

Memories everywhere as swift as leaves in the wind and

sweet as memories of waiting,
 

of laughter,

of affectionate glances at Christmas lunch.

I remember little stories etched in the faces of the dead,

family,

community,

consolation at dusk and

terror of troubled sleeps.

I console behind a stone wall grieving women,

clinging to a true faith,

full of resignation

and resentment towards gods and saints.

I return home amidst the crowing of the cock

and the scratching brambles.