Hillside

The scrub spruce have grown tall
around the small country cemetery:
the sight of Schoolhouse Cove and Harbour Island
now obscured by persistent growth,
and time.

Lichens encroach upon marble and granite
histories that, although brief of detail,
encapsulate lives that were full
of tragedy, of love, of experience,
of life.

Part of my history is buried here,
brushed by salt sea air,
with the scent of spruce, and alders,
offering impartial benediction to both hero
and rogue.

The dates on the markers are brief spans
that fail to capture the intensity, the joy, 
the personalities of those they describe;
the persistent arrow of time offers
final punctuation.

Although the sense of loss is strong,
the feeling of love, of belonging is greater.
I walk slowly away, into a freshening autumn breeze,
proud of the genetic gifts I carry, that remind me
who I am.