It's when I pass the graveyard where old
headstones wilt in the thistle wreaths
and fog bends to sob over
the whole sad and lonely mess.
It's when I park the car and point
my camera to the ravens turned to me.
That's when my dearest dead, one
by one raise a beautiful head.
The beautiful head each one had.
Rife and perfect.
And I begin to fret, who'll remember
their beauty when I'm gone?
When the headstones fall to pieces and
the night of nights hide every trace?
And the black birds on the limb carry on
with no thought of the lovely faces hidden here.