September 14, 2015 | Occasus | Issue 5 | Fiction
A Stone at the Top of the Hill
It is unusual for me to come
To a place like this. Such reverence And such abandonment together in One grassy field, like a hole in time. Not much is left of those whose thoughts may once Have patterned through these rows like their stony Testaments; the trees and grass and mud Preserve far better. A ruined, withered stone stands atop A hill, and seems as good a place to stop As any. Its vacant face hides its secret Well; so I will fill it now and rest. Flowing grass sways around its base, Caressing my back as the slow wind Blows through the plotted ways, And the sun glazes dull etchings On the graves. A vast apple tree sways nearby. It Grasps with stretching arms towards the sky, Clutching deep into the dark soil, Whispering in its leaves of things long passed. What can be said of such a place when So much has been said and lost? What Remains to be discovered? Listen, for You have no place among the wild and Forgotten multitude. |
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DAVID WITMER recently graduated from Western with a double major in English and History. He is currently teaching English abroad and freelance writing for several online outlets.