I tell myself to let it pass,
The dead are dead; they do not hear
The discourse we the living share
Standing on the edge of the abyss.
They’ve had their time and now are done
With the chatter of living things.
Perhaps somewhere an angel sings
A hymn of praise for an unseen sun
Thus stopping their ears with melodies
Beyond my ken. Perhaps the dead
Hear nothing under the rain-soaked sod
And nothing in the stormy breeze.
Talk’s for living people. We speak
To hide our fears, hoping our words,
Which we chatter like fledgling birds,
Obscure the silence of dead folk.
The Czechoslovakian Military Cemetery, Brookwood, Woking, Surrey UK