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.

       

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.