It formed our northern boundary –
A rough dirt track that wound up to
Some toppled tombstones on the top
Of a bare hill. Occasionally
We’d see a motor car or two
Drive slowly up the road and stop,
And out would get some people who
Would walk amongst the scattered stones
And by a grave then stop, and stand,
And bow their heads. They were the few
Who stood above the mouldering bones
Deep down – embracing soil and sand.
I guess they were the ones who’d known
The dead who’d long been buried there.
It seemed that way, for they were old –
The ones who walked that overgrown
Old graveyard, hats in hand, heads bare,
In summer’s heat or winter’s cold.
But that was long ago, now those
Who visited back then have flown;
And who they were we’ll never know,
Nor why they came, and I suppose
They’ve gone the way of flesh and bone.
But some are not forgotten, so –
Now Cemetery Road is black
With tar, and tourists come to see
Where lie those ancient pioneers.
Each stone repaired, no chip or crack
To mar a curiosity –
That long ago was wet with tears.