Lost Graveyard in An Empty Field
A solitary stone cross stands alone in a hayfield
Where a home stood, children played and supper bells rang the time.
But time marches on they tell us and homes fall down; and big farms
Swallow small ones at last leaving only standing stones behind.
They're buried here, the first generations who walked behind the plow.
They were well-respected, well-loved and finally duly mourned.
The grass grows high, the names on the stones now hidden from passers by;
From the cars that rush by this place, the drivers otherwise concerned.
They were loved, those who sleep undreaming now beneath the stones.
Each stone placed by someone who did not want to forget their resting places.
But in scarce a hundred years both sleepers and those who placed the stones,
Are long forgotten, no one left who knows the names or remembers the faces.
Save One who marks each soul that was His; who remembers all the faces,
That once looked up, trusting, knowing He to whom they once surrendered;
Who carved their names into His own hands in a lonely place much like this,
On another cross, had promised even lost graveyards like these would be remembered.
© 2019 By Tom King
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