Tombstone

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The soft autumn gloom remains there
dripping on the drooping dews
the smell of pine in the chill air
and plummets on the valley fair

I heard a great sycamore fall
felt the shudder against my chest
the wind carried the solemn drawl
of past regrets, of ghoulish calls

The sea nearby in roaring gait
restless, soulless, dreaming braces
tie twine and string to death's due fate
teasing movement, orders me, “wait!”

And though I'd choose to leave that place,
that rumbling, torrid whirlpool heart
the haunting lips of that voice trace
the confines of my inner space

The stone that stands in ground alone
the same seen many years ago
the bold, type-face, and chilling drone
of amazing grace, and her death,
tombstone.

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